Have pity on my falling house, and change, I pray,
Thy cruel purpose if there still is room for prayer.
For thee the Libyan races hate me, and my lords
Of Tyre; for thee my latest scruple was o’ercome;
My fame, by which I was ascending to the stars,
My kingdom, fates,—all these have I giv’n up for thee.
And thou, for whom dost thou abandon me, O guest?—
Since from the name of husband this sole name remains.
What wait I more? Is ‘t till Pygmalion shall come,
And lay my walls in ruins, or the desert prince,