Thy city, would they know their peoples’ good 340
And stablish them therein by wholesome laws.
But one thing mars the tale, for o’er thy lands
Travelling I have not seen from morn till eve,
Either from house or farm or labourer’s cot,
In any village, nor this town of Argos
A blue-wreathed smoke arise: the hearths are cold,
This altar cold: I see the wood and cakes
Unbaken—O king, where is the fire?
In. If hither, stranger, thou wert come to find