Hello and welcome. This is let's talk about miss Baby and I am your host, live here with your annual dose of spooky scary readings from the ancient world. Last year we discovered the gory, terrible wonder that our Seneca's plays, The Medea and the Thiestes, and honestly, the speech is within those plays now live in my renfree and I wanted, or rather needed more. We don't have the time this month to cover an entire play of Seneca, and I'm not prioritizing a Roman over It's fine, So instead I went searching for some speeches and themes that we can focus on for today's reading episode. Get our dose of spooky, scary horror gore in just the one, just the one reading And honestly, I mean, when faced with the opportunity to look once more upon that cursed family of Argos, I was not about to say no. So I will explain tiny bits as we go, but I think through these selections, a visceral and vibrant narrative of Argos's most murderous moments will just scream out at you like the ghosts that open these two plays. These are speeches from Seneca selections from the Thiistes and the Agamemnon, both adapted from the translations by Frank Justus Miller. We begin by revisiting the opening of Seneca's Thiistes, which begins with a ghost, but not just any ghost, the ghost of Tantalus, the first in that cursed line of kings. He's in the underworld, speaking with one of the furies, who from this accursed regions of the dead hails me for worth snatching at food whichever flees from my hungry lips. What God, for his undoing shows again to Tantalus the abodes of the living. Has something worse been found than parching thirst amidst water? Worse than ever gaping hunger? Comes the slippery stone of Sisyphus, to be borne upon my shoulders, Or the wheel stretching apart my limbs in its swift round. Or Titius's pangs, who stretched in a huge cavern with torn out vitals, feeds the dusky birds, and by night renewing whatever he lost by day lies an undiminished banquet for new monsters. To what new suffering am I shifting? Oh, whoever you are, harsh judge of shades, who does a lot fresh punishment to the dead. If aught can be added to my sufferings, whereat even the guardian of our dread prison house would quake, whereat sad Ascheron would be seized with dread, with fear, whereof I too should tremble seek you it out. Now from my seed a multitude is coming up, which its own race shall outdo, which shall make me seem innocent and dare things yet undared? Whatever space is still empty in the unholy realm, I shall fill up. Never while Pelops's house is standing, Will Minos be at rest? Then the fury speaks onward, damned shade, and goad thy sinful house to madness. Let there be rivalry and guilt of every kind. Let the sword be drawn on this side and on that. Let their passions no no bounds, no shame. Let blind fury prick on their souls, heartless, be parents rage and to children's children. Let the long trail of sin lead down. Let time be given to none to hate old sins. Ever, let new arise many in one, and let crime even midst its punishment increase from haughty brother's hand. Let kingdoms fall, and in turn let them call back the fugitives. Let the unwavering fortune of a home and violence midst changing kings totter to its fall, from power to wretchedness, from wretchedness to power. May this befall, and may chance with her ever restless waves bear the kingdom on for crime's sake. Exiled, when God shall bring them home to crime, may they return, and may they be as hateful to all men as to themselves. Let there be not which passion deems unallowed. Let brother brother fear father, fears son and son father. Let children vilely perish and be yet more vilely born. Let a murderous wife lift hand against her husband. Let wars pass over sea. Let streaming blood drench every land and over the mighty chiefs of earth. Let lust exult triumphant in this sin stained house. Let shameful defilement be a trivial thing. Let fraternal sanctity and faith in every right be trampled underfoot by our sins. Let not heaven be untainted. Why do the stars glitter in the sky, Why do their fires preserve the glory do the world. Let the face of night be changed. Let day fall from heaven, embroil your household God, summon up hatred, slaughter, death, and fill the whole house with Tantalus, adorn the lofty pillar and with laurel. Let the festal doors be green. Let torches worthy of your your approach shine forth. Then let the Thracian crime be done with greater number. Why is the uncle's hand inactive? Not yet does the atthistes bewail his son's And when will he lift his hand? Now set over the flames, let cauldron's foam, Let the rent members one by one pass in. Let ancestral hearth be stained with blood. Let the feast be spread to no novel feast of crime will come as banqueter today. Have we made you free? Have loosed your hunger to the banquet yonder, Go feed full your fasting and lead blood with wine commingled, be drunk before your eyes. I have found feast which you yourself would flee. But stay where do you rush? Headlong? Tantalus replies, Back to my pools and streams and fleeing waters, Back to the laden tree, which shuns my very lips. Let me return to the black couch of my prison house. Let it be mine. If I seem too little wretched to change my stream in your beds, midst o Phlegathon, let me be left hemmed round with waves of fire. Whoever you are, by the Fate's law bidden to suffer allotted punishment. Whoever lies quaking beneath the hallowed rocks and fears the downfall of the mountainous mass even now coming on you. Whoever shudders at the fierce gaping of greedy lions and entangled in their toils, does shudder at the dread ranks of furies. Whoever, half burned, shuns their threatening torches. Hear you the words of Tantalus now hasting to you. Believe me, who know and love your punishments. Oh, when shall it fall to me to escape the upper world? First, throw your house into confusion, die or bring strife with you, Bring lust for the sword, an evil thing for rulers, and rouse to mad passion the savage beast. It is meet for me to suffer punishments. Not be a punishment. I am sent as some deadly exhalation from the riven earth, or as a pestilence spreading grievous plague among the people, that I, a grandfather, may lead my grandsons into fearful crime. O mighty Father of God's my father too. However, to your shame, I say it, though to cruel punishment by tattling tongue be doomed. I will not hold my peace. I warn you, defile not your hands with a cursed slaughter, nor stain your altars with a madman's crime. Here will I stand and prevent the evil deed. Why with scourge do you fright my eyes and fiercely threaten with your writhing snake. Why deep in my inmost marrow does rouse hunger pains. My heart is parched with burning thirst, and in my scorched vitals the fire is darting. I follow you. The fury replies this. This very rage of yours distribute throughout your house, so even as you may, they be driven on, raging to quench their thirst, each in the other's blood. Your house feels your near approach and has shrunk in utter horror from your accursed touch. Enough more than enough, go you to the infernal caves and well known stream. Now is the grieving earth weary of your presence. See you, how the water driven far within deserts, the springs, how river banks are empty. How the fiery wind drives away the scattered clouds. Every tree grows pale, and from the bare branches the fruit has fled. And where this side and that the Isthmus is wont to roar with neighboring waves dividing near seas, with narrow neck of land the shore, but faintly hears the far off sound. Now Lerna has shrunk back, the Feronian stream has disappeared. The sacred Alphaeus no longer bears his water on Catharon's heights have lost their snows, and nowhere stands Hoary now, and the lordly Argos fears its ancient drought. Lo Titan himself stands doubtful whether to bid day follow on, and plying the reins compel it to come forth to its undoing. And with the fury having spoken, the chorus sings a transition back to the world of the living. If any God loves Achaean, Argos and PISA's homes renowned for chariots, If any Love's Corinthian, Ifsmus's realm its twin harbors its dissevered sea, If any the far seen snows of Mount Ageta, snows which when in winter time, the Sarmatian blasts have laid them on the heights. The summer, with its sail filling it Teesian breezes, melts away. If any is moved by the cool, clear stream of Alpheus, famed for its Olympic course, Let him his kindly god had hither turn. Let him forbid the recurrent wave of crime to come. Forbid that on his grandfather follow a worse grandson and greater crime. Please lesser men, wearied at last, May the impious race of thirsty Tantalus give over its lust for savagery. Enough sin has been wrought, nothing has been right. A veiled or general wrong himself betrayed, fell merderless, betrayer of his lord, and dragged down by the faith which he had shown. He made a sea famous by its change of name to Ionian ships. No tail is better known. While the little son ran to his father's kiss, welcomed by sinful sword, he fell an untimely victim at the hearth, And by the right hand was carved o Tantalus, that you might spread a banquet for the gods your guests. Such food eternal hunger, such eternal thirst pursues, nor for such Bistilvians could have been meted penalty. More fit, weary, with empty throat, stands Tantalus above his guilty head hangs food in plenty. Ben Phineas's birds more elusive on either side, with laden boughs. A tree leans over him, and, bending and trembling beneath the weight of fruit, makes sport with his wide, straining jaws. The prize, though he is eager and impatient of delay, deceived so often he tries no more to touch, turns away his eyes, shuts tight his lips, and behind clenched teeth, he bears his hunger. But then the whole grove lets it riches down nearer still, and the mellow fruits above his head mock him, and drooping boughs and wet against the hunger, which bids him ply his hands in vain. When he has stretched these forth and gladly has been baffled, the whole ripe harvest of the bending woods is snatched far out of reach. Then comes a raging thirst, harder to bear than hunger. When by this his blood has grown hot and glowed as with fiery touches, the poor wretch stands catching at waves that seemed to approach his lips, but these the elusive water turns aside, failing in meager shallows and leaves him utterly striving to pursue. Then, deep from the whirling stream he drinks but dust. You remember how things go for the house of Thiistes, don't you. His brother Atreus lures him back to Argos, where he feigns friendship, feigns that all is forgiven between them, and then he kills thyestes two sons, cuts them up in the dead of night in an eerie forest grove at that and then feeds them to their own father during a feast of reconciliation. Meanwhile, Atreus's two sons, Agamemnon and Menelaias, watch on as their father enacts his revenge on their uncle and cousins. Later, when they're grown, they'll go on to wage the Trojan War on behalf of Helen and imperial greed, while their third and last cousin, a son born to Thiistes after the deaths of his others, Agisthus, remains an Argost, mingling and plotting with Agamemnon's wife, Clytemnestra. She seeks revenge for the murder of their daughter Iphigenia, which launched the ships to Troy. And so with that we look at a whole new play of Seneca's The Agamemnon. This one too begins with a ghost, but this time it's the ghost of Thiistes. The curse just goes on and on and on for the line of Tantalids, leaving the murky regions of infernal diss. I come sent forth from Tartarus's deep pit, doubting which world I hate. The more Diestes flees, the lower the upper he puts to flight. Oh, my spirit shudders, My limbs quake with fear. I see my father's nay more, my brother's house. This is the ancient seat of Pelops's line. Here it is the custom of the Pelasgians to crown their king on this throne, said Hi, lords whose proud hands wield the scepter. Here is their council chamber. Here they feast fain Would I turn me back? Is it not better to haunt even the gloomy pools? Better to gaze upon the guardian of the sticks, tossing his threefold neck with sable mane, where one his body bound on the swift flying wheel, is whirled back upon himself, where van uphill toil is marked as the stone rolls ever backward, where a greedy bird tears at the liver constantly renewed, and the old man, thirst parched midst water, catches at fleeting waves with cheated lips, doomed to pay dearly for the banquet of the gods. But how small a part of my offense is his. Let us take count of all whom for their impious deeds. The Cretan judge, with whirling urn, condemns all of them. By my crimes shall I diyestes conquer, But by my brother shall I be conquered. Full of my three sons buried in me my own flesh have I consumed. Nor thus far only has fortune defiled the father. But daring greater crime than they committed, she bade him seek his daughter's incestuous embrace fearlessly. And to the dregs did I drain her bidding. But twas an impious thing I did. And therefore, that a father's power might extend over all his children, my daughter forced my fate bore child to me worthy to call me father. Nature has been confounded father with grandfather, Yes, monstrous husband with father, grandsons with sons? Have I confused day with night? But at length, though late and coming after death, the promise of dim prophecy is fulfilled to me, worn with my woes, that king of kings, that leader of leader's Agamemnon, following whose banner a thousand ships once covered the Trojan waters with their sails. Now that, after ten courses of phoebus ilia is overthrown. Now is he near at hand to give his throat into his wife's power? Now? Now shall this house swim in blood other than mine? Swords, axes, spears, a king's head coleft with the axe's heavy stroke. I see now crimes are near. Now, treachery, slaughter, gore, feasts are being spread. The author of your birth has come ageast this. Why do you hang your head in shame? Why does your trembling hand, doubtful of purpose fall? Why do you take counsel with yourself? Why turn the question over and over? Whether this deed becomes you? Think on your mother, it becomes you well? But why suddenly is the summer night prolonged to winter's span? Or what holds the setting stars in the sky. Are we delaying? Phoebus, give back the day now to the universe. At this the ghost of Thiestes disappears, and the chorus of argive women begin their song. O Fortune, who does bestow the throne's high boon with mocking hand? In dangerous and doubtful state, you settled the two exalted? Never have scepters obtain'd calm, peace or certain tenure. Care on care weighs them down. And ever do fresh storms vex their souls? Not so on libyan quicksands. Does the sea rage and roll up, wave on wave, not so? Stirred from their lowest depths the surge Yuxin's waters hard by the icy pole, where undipp'd in the azure waves, Biotees follows his shining win, as does fortune roll on the headlong fates of kings. To be feared they long, and to be feared they dread kindly. Night gives them no safe retreat, and sleep which conquers care soothes not their breasts. What palace has not come answering crime hurled headlong? What palace do impious arms not vex law shame? The sacred bonds of marriage all flee from courts hard in pursuit comes grim Bologna of the bloody hand, and she who frets the proud rhnways forever dogging homes too high, which any hour brings low from high estate. Though arms be idle and treachery give over. Great kingdoms sink of their own weight, and fortune gives way beneath the burden of herself. Sails swollen with favoring breezes, fear blasts too strongly theirs. The tower, which rears its head to the very clouds, is beaten by rainios. The grove, spreading dense shade around seeks oak trees riven tis the high hills that the lightning strike. Large bodies are more to disease exposed, And while common herds stray over vagrant pastures, the head highest upreared is marked for death. Whatever fortune has raised on high she lifts, but to bring low modest estate has longer life than happy. He whoever content with the common lot with safe breeze, hugs the shore, and, fearing to trust his skiff to the wider sea with unambitious ore, keeps close to land. By now, Clytemnestra is on the stage she knows Agamemnon is returning from Troy. Why sluggish soul, do you seek safe counsel? Why waiver? Already the better way is closed. Once you might have guarded your chaste bed and your widowed scepter with pure wifely faith. Gone are good fashions, right doing, honor, piety, faith, and modesty, which, once it's gone, knows no return. Fling loose the reins and forward bent rowse onward all iniquity through crime, ever, is the safe way for crime? Devise now in your own heart a woman's wiles. What any faithless wife beside herself with blind passion? What stepmother's hands have dared? Or what she dared that made ablaze with impious love? Who fled her fascian realm in that thessalian bark? Dare sword, dare poison? Or else? Flee from my scene with the partner of your guilt in stealthy bark. But why timidly talk of dealth, of exile, and of flight such things your sister did you? Some greater crime becomes passions rack me too strong to endure delay. Flames are burning my very marrow, and my heart here fear blent with anguish plies the spur, and my breast throbs with jealousy. Their base love forces its yoke upon my mind, and forbids me to give way. And amidst such fires that beset my soul shame, weary, indeed and conquered and utterly undone, still struggles on by shifting floods. Am I driven as when here wind there tied harries, the deep, and the waters halts, uncertain to which foe they will yield. Wherefore I have let go the rudder from my hands, where wrath, where smart, where hope shall carry me? There will I go to the waves? Have I given my bark where reason fails its best to follow chance? From here Clytemnestra and Ageisthus discussed their plans. Ageistus is ready to do whatever she wants of him, and later, finally their sight of Agamemnon. A messenger arrives first and launches into the story of how it was they sailed back from Troy and all they went through in order to finally reach Argos. When all Pergamum fell beneath the Doric fire, the spoil was divided, and an eager haste all sought the sea and now the warrior eases his side of the sword's weary load, and unheeded, lie the shields along the high stern. The oar is fitted to the warrior's hands, and to their eager haste, all tarrying seems over long. Then, when the signal for return gleamed on the royal ship, and the loud trumpet blast warned the glad rowers, the King's gilded prow leading marked out the way and opened up the course for a thousand ships to follow. A gentle breeze at first steals into our sails and drives our vessels onward. The tranquil waves, scarce, stirring ripple beneath soft zephyr's breathing, and the sea reflects the splendor of the fleet hiding the while beneath It tis sweet to gaze upon the bare shores of Troy, sweet to behold deserted Scigium's waste. The young men all haste to bend the oars with strokes together, air winds with hands, and move their sturdy arms with rhythmics. Wing the furrowed waters, quiver the vessel's sides, hiss through the waves, and dash the blue sea into hoary spray. When a fresher breeze strains the swelling sails, the warriors lay by their oars, trust ship to wind, and stretched along the benches, either watch the far fleeing land as the sails retreat, or rehearse their wars. Brave Hector's threats. The chariot and his ransomed body given to the pyre herquet and jove sprinkled with royal blood. Then too, the Tirini fish plays to and fro in the smooth water, leaps over the heaving seas, with arching back and sports around, now dashing about in circles, now swimming by our side, now gaily leading, and again following after Anon. The band is sheer wantonness, touch the leading brow. Now round and round this thousand ship they swim. Meanwhile on the shore is hid, and the plains sink from view, and dimly the ridges of Ida's mountain appear. And now what alone the keenest eye can see. The smoke of iliums shows, but a dusky spot Already from the yoke. Titan was freeing his horse's weary necks. Now to the stars, his rays sink low. Nowaday goes headlong down a tiny cloud growing to a murky mass stains the bright radiance of the setting sun, and the many colored sunset has made us doubt the sea. Young knight had spangled the sky with stars. The sails deserted by the wind, hung low. Then from the mountain heights there falls a murmur deep Who's threatening? And the wide sweeping shore and the rocky headlands send forth a moaning sound. The waves, lashed by the rising wind, roll high. When suddenly the moon is hid, the stars sink out of sight skywards, the sea is lifted, the heavens are gone. Tis doubly night. Dense fog overwhelms the dark, and all light withdrawn confuses sea and sky from all sides at once. The winds fall on and ravage the sea from its lowest depths. Upturned west wind with East wind, striving south with north, each wields his own weapons with deadly assaults, stirring up the deep, while a whirlwind churns the waves. Strimonian aquillo sends the deep snow whirling, and Libyan auster stirs up the sands of Syrtes Nor stand. The strife with auster, notice heavy with clouds, blows up swells waves with rain, while Urus attacks the dawn, shaking Nabachian realms and eastern gulfs. What raw, fierce chorus, thrusting forth his head from ocean, the whole sky he tears from its foundations, And you might think the very gods falling from the shattered heavens, and black chaos enveloping the world. Flood strives with wind, and wind backward rolls the flood. The sea contains not itself, and rain and waves mingle their waters. Then even this comfort fails their dreadly plight to see at least and know the disaster by which they perish. Darkness weighs on their eyes, and tis the infernal night of awful sticks. Yet fires burst forth, and from the riven clouds gleams the dire lightning flash. And to the poor sailor's great is the sweetness of that fearful gleam. Even for such light, they pray. The fleet itself helps on its own destruction, prow crashing on prow and side on side. One ship, the yawning Deep, sucks into the abyss engulfs and spews forth again, restored to the sea above. One sinks of its own weight, Another turns its wrecked side to the waves, and one, the tenth wave, overwhelms here, battered and stripped of all its ornament, one floats with neither sails, nor oars, nor straight mast, bearing the high sailards a broken hulk drifting wide on the Akarian Sea. Reason experience are of no avail. Skill yields to dire calamity. Horror yields their limbs. The sailors are all stand stupefied, their tasks abandoned. Oars drop from hands to prayer. Abject fear drives the Wretches, and Trojans and Greeks beg the same things of the gods. What can near doom accomplish? Pirus envies his father, Ulysses Ajax, the younger atrides Hector Agamemnon Priam. Whoever at Troy lies slain, is hailed as blessed, who, by deeds of arms, earned death, whom glory guards, whom the land he conquered. Berries do see and the wave bear those who have dared not noble and shall a coward's doom overwhelm brave men, must death be squandered. Whoever of Heaven's gods you are not yet with our sore troubles stated, let your divinity be at last appeased over our calamities. Even Troy would weep. But if your hate is stubborn, and it's your pleasure to send the Greek or race to doom, why would have those perish along with us? For whose sake we perish? Elay the raging sea. This fleet bears Greeks, but it bears Trojans too. They can no more the sea usurps their words, but lo disaster on disaster. Pallace, armed with the bolt of angry Jove, threatening essays whatever she meant, not with spear, not with Ajax, not with Gorgan's rage, but with her father's lightning. And throughout the sky new tempests blow. Ajax alone, undaunted by disaster, keeps up the struggle, him shortening sail with straining Halliard. The hurtling lightning grazed. Another bolt is leveled. This with all her might, Palace launched true with hand back drawn in imitation of her father. Through Ajax. It passed and through his ship, and part of the ship with it, and Ajax it bore away. Then he nothing moved, like some high crag rises flames scorched from the brinding deep cleaves the raging sea with his breast, bursts through the floods, and holding to his wrecked vessel with his hand, drags flames along, shines brightly amidst the darkness of the sea, and illuminates the waves. At last a rock in mad rage, he thunders, too sweet to have conquered all things flood and flame to a vanquished sky, Pallas thunderbolt, And see if led not in terror of the god of war both hector at once and Mars, did I with my soul arm withstand, Nor did together with their Phrygians I conquered? And shall I shrink from you another's weapon with weakling hand you hurl? What if he himself should hurl, when in his madness he would be daring more. Father Neptune, pushing with his trident, overwhelm the rock, thrusting forth his head from the waves' depths, and broke off the drag. This in his fall, Ajax bears down with him, And now he lies by earth and fire and billows overcome. But us shipwrecked mariners, another worse ruined challenges. There is a shallow water, a deceitful shoal of rough boulders, where treacherous Cafarius hides his rocky bass beneath whirling eddies. The sea boils upon the rocks, and ever the flood seethes with its ebb and flow a precipitous headland overhangs, which on either hand looks out upon both stretches of the sea. Hence you may decry your own Pelopian shores and its must which backward curving with its narrow soil, forbids the Ionian sea to join with Phryxus's waves. Hence also Lemnos, infamous for crime, and Calcudon and Owlus, which along delayed the fleet. Seizing this sum at, the father of Palamedes, with a cursed hand raised from the high top a beacon light and with treacherous torch, lured the fleet upon the reefs. There hang the ships, caught on jagged rocks. Some are broken to pieces in the shallow water. The prow of one vessel is carried away, while a part sticks fast upon the rock. One ship crashes with another as it draws back, Both wrecked and wrecking. Now ships fear land and choose the sea towards dawn, the storm's rage is spent. Now that atonement has been made for Ilium, Phoebus returns, and sad day reveals the havoc of the night. And when this messenger Euribaates is finished, Clytemnestra responds, shall I lament or rejoice me at my lord's return? I do rejoice to see him home again, But over our realm's heavy loss, am I forced to grieve? At last? Oh, Father, that does shake the high resounding heavens. Restore to the Greeks their gods appeased. Now, Let every head by crowned with festal wreaths. Let the sacrificial flute give forth sweet strains, and the white victim at the great altars fall, But see a mournful throng with locks unbound. The Trojan women are here, While high above them all, with proud step advancing Phoebus is mad priestess waves the inspired laurel branch. We have another chorus, this one of captive Trojan women. They sing as they approach the palace, with the cursed Trojan prophetess Cassandra among them. Alas how alluring a bane is appointed unto mortals, even dire love of life, though refuge from air, woes upon woes, and death with generous hand invites the wretched a peaceful port of everlasting rest. Nor fear, nor storm of raging fortune disturbs that calm, nor bolt of the harsh thunderer. Peace so deep fears. No citizen's conspiracy, no victor's threatening wrath, no wild seas ruffled by stormy winds, no fierce battle lines or dark cloud raised by barbaric squadrons hoofs, No nations falling with their city's otter overthrow while the hostile flames lay waste the walls. No fe fierce, ungovernable war all bonds. Will he break through? Who dares scorn the fickle gods, Who, on the face of dark Ascheron on fearful Styx, can look unfearful and is bold enough to put an end to life, A match for kings, a match for the high gods? Will he be? Oh, how wretched it is to know not how to die. We saw our country fall on that night of death. When you eu Doric fires ravished Dardania's homes. She not in war, conquered, not by arms, not as afore time by Hercules's arrows fell her, not Pelias and Thedus's son overcame, nor he well beloved by overbrave Polides, when in borrowed arms he shone and drove Troy's sons in flight of false Achilles. Nor when Polide's self, through grief, gave over his fierce resentment, and the Trojan women from the ramparts watching feared his swift attack. Did she lose amid her woes, the crowning glory of suffering conquest bravely for ten long years she stood, faded to perish by one knight's treachery. We saw that feigned gift measureless in bulk, and with our hands trustfully dragged along the Greeks, deadly offering, and often on the threshold of the gate, the noisy footed monster stumbled, bearing with its hold hidden chiefs and war. We might have turned their guile against themselves and caused the Pelasians, by their own trick to fall. Often sounded their jostled shields and low muttering smote our ears. When Peirus grumbled scarce yielding to crafty Ulysses's will, all unafraid, the Trojan youth joy to touch the fatal ropes companies of their own age. Here Astiana's leads. There she to the Thessalian pyre, betrothed, she leading maids, he youths. Gaily do mothers bring votive offerings to the gods. Gaily do fathers approach the shrines. Each wears but one look the city over, and what never sought we saw since Hector's funeral Hecuba was glad and now unhappy? Grief? What first? What last? Will you? Lament? Walls by divine hands, fashioned by our own destroyed temples upon their gods consumed? Time lacks to weep such ills you, o, great father. The Trojan women weep I saw I saw in the old man's throat, the sword of Pirus scarce wet in his scanty blood. Cassandra speaks, Now, restrain your tears, which all time will seek, you, Trojan women, And do you yourselves grieve for your own dead with groans and lamentations? My losses, refuse all sharing cease than your grief for my disasters. I myself shall suffice for the woes of my own house. And the chorus continues, Tis sweet to mingle tears with tears, griefs bring more smart where they wound in solitude. But tis sweet in company to bewail one's friends. Nor shall you, though strong, heroic and inured to woe, a vail, to lament calamities so great. Not the sad nightingale, which from the vernal bough pours forth her liquid song, piping of vitis in ever changing strains. Not the bird, which perching on by Stonian battlements, tells over and over the hidden sins of her cruel lord, will ever be able, with all her passionate lament worthily to mourn your house? Should bright kiknos self haunting mid snowy swans ister and tenais utter his dying song, Should halcions mourn their cakes midst the light waves lapping, when though distrustful, boldly they trust once more to the tranquil ocean, and anxiously on's unsteady nest cherish their young. Should the sad throng which follows the unmarried men bruise their arms along with you, the throng which, by the shrill flute maddened smite their breast to the tower crown'd mother, that for the Phrygian attis they may lament. Not so Cassandra, is their measure for our tears? For what we suffer has out measured measure. But why do you tear off the holy filets from your head? We think the gods should be most reverenced by unhappy souls. These captive women have now spoken to Cassandra, she replies, and the chorus goes on to speak of her rather than to her. Now have our woes overmastered every fear? Neither do I appease the heavenly gods by any prayer, nor should they wish to rage? Have they wherewith to harm me? Fortune herself has exhausted all her powers. What fatherland remains? What father? What sister? Now? Altars and tombs have drunk up my blood? What have that happy throng of brothers gone? All in the empty palace, only sad old men are left. And throughout those many chambers they see all women save her of Sparta, widowed, that mother of so many kings, queen of the Phrygians. Hecuba, fruitful for funeral pyres, proving new laws of fate, has put on beastial form around her ruined walls. Madly she barked, surviving troy Son husband and herself. The bride of Phoebus is suddenly still pallor overspreads her cheeks, and constant tremors master all her frame. Her filets stand erect, her soft locks rise in horror. Her laboring heart sounds loud with pent murmuring. Her glance wanders uncertain. Her eyes seem backward, turned into herself Anon, they stare unmoving. Now she lifts her head into the air, higher than her wont and walks with stately tread. Now makes you unlock her struggling lips. Now vainly tries to close them on her words, a mad priestess fighting against the god. Why o Parnassis's sacred heights? Do you prick me with the furious goads anew? Why do you sweep me on bereft of senses? Away? Oh Phoebus, I am no longer yours quench you? The flames set deep within my breast. For whose sake? Wander eye now in madness? For whose sake? In frenzy rave, Now Troy has fallen? What have I, false prophetess to do? Where am I fled? Is the kindly light? Deep darkness blinds my eyes, and the sky buried in gloom is hidden away. But see with double sun the day gleams forth, and double argos lifts up twin palaces Ida's groves. I see there sits the shepherd fateful judgment midst mighty goddesses, fear him, you kings eye warn you fear the child of stolen love? That rustic foundling shall overturn your house? What means that mad woman with drawn sword in hand hero seeks she with her right hand a spartan in her guard, but carrying an Amazonian axe? What sight is that other which now employs my eyes? The king of beasts, with his proud neck by a base fang, lies low, an African lion suffering the bloody bites of his bold lioness. Why do you summon me, saved only of my house, my kindred shades? You father? Do I follow eye witness of Troy's burial? You brother, help of the Phrygian's terror of the Greeks. I see not in your old time splendor, or with your hands hot from the burning of the ships, but mangled of limb, with those arms wounded by the deep sunk thongs, you Troylus, I follow too early with Achilles met unrecognizable the face you wore, Diphobus, the gift of your new wife to sweet, to fare along the very Stygian pool. Sweet, to behold tartarous is savage dog, and the realms of greedy diss. Today this skiff of murky Phlegethon shall bear royal souls vanquished and vanquisher you shades. I pray you stream on which the gods make oath you no less. I pray for a little withdraw the covering of that dark world that on my scene the shadowy throng of Phrygians may look forth behold poor souls. The fates turned backward on themselves. They press on the squalid sisters, their bloody lashes, brandishing their left hands, half burned torches bare bloated are their pallid cheeks and dusky robes of death. Their hollow loins encircle the fearsome cries of night resound, and a huge body's bones, rotting with long decay. Lie in a slimy marsh, and see that spent old band for getting thirst no longer catches at the mocking waters, grieving a death to come. But father Dardanus exults and walks along with stately tread. With this, Agamemnon returns to the stage and speaks with Cassandra. They speak in riddles, of course, with one not entirely hearing the other. It's pointless anyway. Cassandra knows what's coming, and so Agamemnon re enters the house, now leaving Cassandra on the stage with the chorus of argive women who speak next, Oh, Argos, ennobled by your noble citizens, Argos, dear to the step Dame, though enraged, ever, mighty sons you fostered and have made even the odd number of the gods. That hero of yours, by his twelve labors, earned the right to be chosen for the skies great Hercules, for whom the world's law broken. Jove doubled the hours of dewey night, bade Femis more slowly drive his hastening car, and your team to turn back with laggard feet, Oh, pale phoebe backward. The star turned his steps, the star who changes from name to name, and marveled still to be called Asparis evening Star. Aurora stirred at the accustomed hour of dawn, but sinking back, laid her head and neck upon the breast of her aged husband. The rising yes and the setting of the sun felt the birth of Hercules, a hero so mighty could not be begotten in a single night. For you, the whirling universe stood still, oh boy destined to mount the skies. The lightning swift lion of Nimia, felt your power crushed by your straining arms. And the Parassian hind the ravage of Arcadia's fields felt you too, and loud bellowed the savage bull. Leaving the fields of crete, the hydra fertile and death, he overcame and forbade new berths from each neck, destroyed the maiden brethren, Springing three monsters from a single body, he crushed, leaping on them with his crashing club, and brought to the east the western herd. Spoil of the three formed Caryon. He drove the Thracian herd, which the tyrant fed, not on the grass of stream On or on the banks of the Hebres. Cruel. He offered his savage horses the gore of strangers, and the blood of their driver was the last to stain their red jaws. Warlike, Hippolyta saw the spoil snatched from about her breast, and by his shafts down from the riven sky from high heaven fell the stymphalian bird. The tree, laden with golden fruit, shrank from his hands, unused to such plucking, and the bough, relieved of its burden, sprang into the air. The cold, sleepless guardian heard the sound of the clinking metal only when Heavy laid in Alcides and was leaving the grove for stripped of its tawny gold, dragged to the upper world by triple fetters. The infernal dog was silent, nor with any mouth did he bay, shrinking from the hues of unexperienced light. Under your leadership, fell the lying house of Dardanus, and suffered the arrows once again to be feared. Under your leadership, in as many days Troy fell, as it took years thereafter, and now Cassandra alone on the stage, A great deed is done within a match for ten years of war, Ah, what is this? Rise up, my soul and take the reward of your madness. We are conquerors, We conquered Phrygians' tis well, Troy has risen again. In your fall, Oh father, you have dragged down my scene. Your conqueror gives way. Never before did my mind's prophetic frenzy give sight to my eyes so clear I see, I am in the midst of it. I revel in it. Tis no doubtful image cheats my sight. Let me gaze my fill. A feast is spread within the royal house and thronged with guests, like that last banquet of the Phrygians. The couches gleam with Trojan purple and their wine they coiff from the golden cups of old asaurracas lough. He himself, embroidered vestments, lies on lofty couch, wearing on his body the proud spoils of priam. His wife bids him doff the raiment of his foe, and down instead the mantle of her own, fond hands of woven. I shudder, and my soul trembles at the sight. Shall an exile slay a king, an adulterer, a husband? The fatal hour has come. The banquet's closed shall see the master's blood and gore shall fall into the wine. The deadly mantle he has put on delivers him, bound treacherously to his doom. The loose, impenetrable folds refuse outlet to his hands and enshroud his head with trembling right hand. The half man stabs at his side, but hath not driven deep in mid stroke. He stands as one amazed, but he has in the deep woods a bristling poor though with the net entangled, still tries for freedom, and by his struggling draws close his bonds and rages all in vain. He strives to throw off the blinding folds all around him, floating, and though closely enmeshed, seas for his foe. Now Tindarius's daughter, in mad rage, snatches the two hedged decks as at the altar. The priest marks with his eye the oxen's neck before he strikes. So now here now there her impious hand, she aims, he has it. The deed is done. This scarce severed head hangs by a slender part. Here blood streams over his headless trunk. There lie his moaning lips, and not yet do they give over. He attacks the already lifeless man and keeps hacking at the corpse. She helps him in the stabbing. Each one in this dire crime answers to his own kin. He is Thiestes' son, she Helen's sister see Titan, the day's work done, stands hesitant, whether his own or Thiestes's course to run. Oh wow, that was actually even more fun than I expected. I love Cassandra. I also now I really need to read this plaxcept. I do have to do the eascliss agamm non first, which is why I just want to do this reading. But I do like how clearly Cassandra's like a geese. This did basically nothing. Clyde Amnestra did it all. Also, I just oh, that was fun. I like that that Cassandra at the end there. Also, that's the first time I've tried to just straight read some dialogue like that, Like I really picked. I made sure that there wasn't straight dialogue back and forth because it would have been weird with just one voice. But let me know if you enjoyed that as a reading episode, because if that kind of works, it's more likely that I could do selections from plays. It's just as long as I'm kind of picking and choosing and then adding in those little bits that I did to kind of explain things. So particularly on Spotify where you can now comment, if you like that, let me know or rather, if you find you could, you would definitely like it for more things. Let me know, all right, let's talk about this Baby has written and produced by me Leve Albert Nikaela Pangawish is the Hermes to my Olympians. The producer select music in this episode was by Luke Chaos. The podcast is part of the iHeart podcast Network. Listen on Apple Podcasts or Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. Also, we've got a new newsletter starting up soon where you can stay in touch about all the new and fun things that I've got planned. You can sign up at mythsbaby dot com slash newsletter that's gonna provide more information because we're just unfortunately delaying that ad scripture. I'm not gonna repeat that, delaying that ad subscription a little further. I've been reading too long. So yeah, that's coming. But basically I'm gonna move across the country first because it got delayed by like a months and now it's in the worst possible time. So that'll be happening before the end of the year. It's gonna be exciting. Also, submit your Q and A questions for the next Q and A, which will be in November. Submit those at miss baby dot com slash questions. Thank you all. I am live and I love this shit. Oh I sure do. Seneca's great. I mean, for a Roman, he's really killing it. Pun not intended, but appreciated,

Hello and welcome. This is let's talk about miss Baby and I am your host, live here with your annual dose of spooky scary readings from the ancient world. Last year we discovered the gory, terrible wonder that our Seneca's plays, The Medea and the Thiestes, and honestly, the speech is within those plays now live in my renfree and I wanted, or rather needed more. We don't have the time this month to cover an entire play of Seneca, and I'm not prioritizing a Roman over It's fine, So instead I went searching for some speeches and themes that we can focus on for today's reading episode. Get our dose of spooky, scary horror gore in just the one, just the one reading And honestly, I mean, when faced with the opportunity to look once more upon that cursed family of Argos, I was not about to say no. So I will explain tiny bits as we go, but I think through these selections, a visceral and vibrant narrative of Argos's most murderous moments will just scream out at you like the ghosts that open these two plays. These are speeches from Seneca selections from the Thiistes and the Agamemnon, both adapted from the translations by Frank Justus Miller. We begin by revisiting the opening of Seneca's Thiistes, which begins with a ghost, but not just any ghost, the ghost of Tantalus, the first in that cursed line of kings. He's in the underworld, speaking with one of the furies, who from this accursed regions of the dead hails me for worth snatching at food whichever flees from my hungry lips. What God, for his undoing shows again to Tantalus the abodes of the living. Has something worse been found than parching thirst amidst water? Worse than ever gaping hunger? Comes the slippery stone of Sisyphus, to be borne upon my shoulders, Or the wheel stretching apart my limbs in its swift round. Or Titius's pangs, who stretched in a huge cavern with torn out vitals, feeds the dusky birds, and by night renewing whatever he lost by day lies an undiminished banquet for new monsters. To what new suffering am I shifting? Oh, whoever you are, harsh judge of shades, who does a lot fresh punishment to the dead. If aught can be added to my sufferings, whereat even the guardian of our dread prison house would quake, whereat sad Ascheron would be seized with dread, with fear, whereof I too should tremble seek you it out. Now from my seed a multitude is coming up, which its own race shall outdo, which shall make me seem innocent and dare things yet undared? Whatever space is still empty in the unholy realm, I shall fill up. Never while Pelops's house is standing, Will Minos be at rest? Then the fury speaks onward, damned shade, and goad thy sinful house to madness. Let there be rivalry and guilt of every kind. Let the sword be drawn on this side and on that. Let their passions no no bounds, no shame. Let blind fury prick on their souls, heartless, be parents rage and to children's children. Let the long trail of sin lead down. Let time be given to none to hate old sins. Ever, let new arise many in one, and let crime even midst its punishment increase from haughty brother's hand. Let kingdoms fall, and in turn let them call back the fugitives. Let the unwavering fortune of a home and violence midst changing kings totter to its fall, from power to wretchedness, from wretchedness to power. May this befall, and may chance with her ever restless waves bear the kingdom on for crime's sake. Exiled, when God shall bring them home to crime, may they return, and may they be as hateful to all men as to themselves. Let there be not which passion deems unallowed. Let brother brother fear father, fears son and son father. Let children vilely perish and be yet more vilely born. Let a murderous wife lift hand against her husband. Let wars pass over sea. Let streaming blood drench every land and over the mighty chiefs of earth. Let lust exult triumphant in this sin stained house. Let shameful defilement be a trivial thing. Let fraternal sanctity and faith in every right be trampled underfoot by our sins. Let not heaven be untainted. Why do the stars glitter in the sky, Why do their fires preserve the glory do the world. Let the face of night be changed. Let day fall from heaven, embroil your household God, summon up hatred, slaughter, death, and fill the whole house with Tantalus, adorn the lofty pillar and with laurel. Let the festal doors be green. Let torches worthy of your your approach shine forth. Then let the Thracian crime be done with greater number. Why is the uncle's hand inactive? Not yet does the atthistes bewail his son's And when will he lift his hand? Now set over the flames, let cauldron's foam, Let the rent members one by one pass in. Let ancestral hearth be stained with blood. Let the feast be spread to no novel feast of crime will come as banqueter today. Have we made you free? Have loosed your hunger to the banquet yonder, Go feed full your fasting and lead blood with wine commingled, be drunk before your eyes. I have found feast which you yourself would flee. But stay where do you rush? Headlong? Tantalus replies, Back to my pools and streams and fleeing waters, Back to the laden tree, which shuns my very lips. Let me return to the black couch of my prison house. Let it be mine. If I seem too little wretched to change my stream in your beds, midst o Phlegathon, let me be left hemmed round with waves of fire. Whoever you are, by the Fate's law bidden to suffer allotted punishment. Whoever lies quaking beneath the hallowed rocks and fears the downfall of the mountainous mass even now coming on you. Whoever shudders at the fierce gaping of greedy lions and entangled in their toils, does shudder at the dread ranks of furies. Whoever, half burned, shuns their threatening torches. Hear you the words of Tantalus now hasting to you. Believe me, who know and love your punishments. Oh, when shall it fall to me to escape the upper world? First, throw your house into confusion, die or bring strife with you, Bring lust for the sword, an evil thing for rulers, and rouse to mad passion the savage beast. It is meet for me to suffer punishments. Not be a punishment. I am sent as some deadly exhalation from the riven earth, or as a pestilence spreading grievous plague among the people, that I, a grandfather, may lead my grandsons into fearful crime. O mighty Father of God's my father too. However, to your shame, I say it, though to cruel punishment by tattling tongue be doomed. I will not hold my peace. I warn you, defile not your hands with a cursed slaughter, nor stain your altars with a madman's crime. Here will I stand and prevent the evil deed. Why with scourge do you fright my eyes and fiercely threaten with your writhing snake. Why deep in my inmost marrow does rouse hunger pains. My heart is parched with burning thirst, and in my scorched vitals the fire is darting. I follow you. The fury replies this. This very rage of yours distribute throughout your house, so even as you may, they be driven on, raging to quench their thirst, each in the other's blood. Your house feels your near approach and has shrunk in utter horror from your accursed touch. Enough more than enough, go you to the infernal caves and well known stream. Now is the grieving earth weary of your presence. See you, how the water driven far within deserts, the springs, how river banks are empty. How the fiery wind drives away the scattered clouds. Every tree grows pale, and from the bare branches the fruit has fled. And where this side and that the Isthmus is wont to roar with neighboring waves dividing near seas, with narrow neck of land the shore, but faintly hears the far off sound. Now Lerna has shrunk back, the Feronian stream has disappeared. The sacred Alphaeus no longer bears his water on Catharon's heights have lost their snows, and nowhere stands Hoary now, and the lordly Argos fears its ancient drought. Lo Titan himself stands doubtful whether to bid day follow on, and plying the reins compel it to come forth to its undoing. And with the fury having spoken, the chorus sings a transition back to the world of the living. If any God loves Achaean, Argos and PISA's homes renowned for chariots, If any Love's Corinthian, Ifsmus's realm its twin harbors its dissevered sea, If any the far seen snows of Mount Ageta, snows which when in winter time, the Sarmatian blasts have laid them on the heights. The summer, with its sail filling it Teesian breezes, melts away. If any is moved by the cool, clear stream of Alpheus, famed for its Olympic course, Let him his kindly god had hither turn. Let him forbid the recurrent wave of crime to come. Forbid that on his grandfather follow a worse grandson and greater crime. Please lesser men, wearied at last, May the impious race of thirsty Tantalus give over its lust for savagery. Enough sin has been wrought, nothing has been right. A veiled or general wrong himself betrayed, fell merderless, betrayer of his lord, and dragged down by the faith which he had shown. He made a sea famous by its change of name to Ionian ships. No tail is better known. While the little son ran to his father's kiss, welcomed by sinful sword, he fell an untimely victim at the hearth, And by the right hand was carved o Tantalus, that you might spread a banquet for the gods your guests. Such food eternal hunger, such eternal thirst pursues, nor for such Bistilvians could have been meted penalty. More fit, weary, with empty throat, stands Tantalus above his guilty head hangs food in plenty. Ben Phineas's birds more elusive on either side, with laden boughs. A tree leans over him, and, bending and trembling beneath the weight of fruit, makes sport with his wide, straining jaws. The prize, though he is eager and impatient of delay, deceived so often he tries no more to touch, turns away his eyes, shuts tight his lips, and behind clenched teeth, he bears his hunger. But then the whole grove lets it riches down nearer still, and the mellow fruits above his head mock him, and drooping boughs and wet against the hunger, which bids him ply his hands in vain. When he has stretched these forth and gladly has been baffled, the whole ripe harvest of the bending woods is snatched far out of reach. Then comes a raging thirst, harder to bear than hunger. When by this his blood has grown hot and glowed as with fiery touches, the poor wretch stands catching at waves that seemed to approach his lips, but these the elusive water turns aside, failing in meager shallows and leaves him utterly striving to pursue. Then, deep from the whirling stream he drinks but dust. You remember how things go for the house of Thiistes, don't you. His brother Atreus lures him back to Argos, where he feigns friendship, feigns that all is forgiven between them, and then he kills thyestes two sons, cuts them up in the dead of night in an eerie forest grove at that and then feeds them to their own father during a feast of reconciliation. Meanwhile, Atreus's two sons, Agamemnon and Menelaias, watch on as their father enacts his revenge on their uncle and cousins. Later, when they're grown, they'll go on to wage the Trojan War on behalf of Helen and imperial greed, while their third and last cousin, a son born to Thiistes after the deaths of his others, Agisthus, remains an Argost, mingling and plotting with Agamemnon's wife, Clytemnestra. She seeks revenge for the murder of their daughter Iphigenia, which launched the ships to Troy. And so with that we look at a whole new play of Seneca's The Agamemnon. This one too begins with a ghost, but this time it's the ghost of Thiistes. The curse just goes on and on and on for the line of Tantalids, leaving the murky regions of infernal diss. I come sent forth from Tartarus's deep pit, doubting which world I hate. The more Diestes flees, the lower the upper he puts to flight. Oh, my spirit shudders, My limbs quake with fear. I see my father's nay more, my brother's house. This is the ancient seat of Pelops's line. Here it is the custom of the Pelasgians to crown their king on this throne, said Hi, lords whose proud hands wield the scepter. Here is their council chamber. Here they feast fain Would I turn me back? Is it not better to haunt even the gloomy pools? Better to gaze upon the guardian of the sticks, tossing his threefold neck with sable mane, where one his body bound on the swift flying wheel, is whirled back upon himself, where van uphill toil is marked as the stone rolls ever backward, where a greedy bird tears at the liver constantly renewed, and the old man, thirst parched midst water, catches at fleeting waves with cheated lips, doomed to pay dearly for the banquet of the gods. But how small a part of my offense is his. Let us take count of all whom for their impious deeds. The Cretan judge, with whirling urn, condemns all of them. By my crimes shall I diyestes conquer, But by my brother shall I be conquered. Full of my three sons buried in me my own flesh have I consumed. Nor thus far only has fortune defiled the father. But daring greater crime than they committed, she bade him seek his daughter's incestuous embrace fearlessly. And to the dregs did I drain her bidding. But twas an impious thing I did. And therefore, that a father's power might extend over all his children, my daughter forced my fate bore child to me worthy to call me father. Nature has been confounded father with grandfather, Yes, monstrous husband with father, grandsons with sons? Have I confused day with night? But at length, though late and coming after death, the promise of dim prophecy is fulfilled to me, worn with my woes, that king of kings, that leader of leader's Agamemnon, following whose banner a thousand ships once covered the Trojan waters with their sails. Now that, after ten courses of phoebus ilia is overthrown. Now is he near at hand to give his throat into his wife's power? Now? Now shall this house swim in blood other than mine? Swords, axes, spears, a king's head coleft with the axe's heavy stroke. I see now crimes are near. Now, treachery, slaughter, gore, feasts are being spread. The author of your birth has come ageast this. Why do you hang your head in shame? Why does your trembling hand, doubtful of purpose fall? Why do you take counsel with yourself? Why turn the question over and over? Whether this deed becomes you? Think on your mother, it becomes you well? But why suddenly is the summer night prolonged to winter's span? Or what holds the setting stars in the sky. Are we delaying? Phoebus, give back the day now to the universe. At this the ghost of Thiestes disappears, and the chorus of argive women begin their song. O Fortune, who does bestow the throne's high boon with mocking hand? In dangerous and doubtful state, you settled the two exalted? Never have scepters obtain'd calm, peace or certain tenure. Care on care weighs them down. And ever do fresh storms vex their souls? Not so on libyan quicksands. Does the sea rage and roll up, wave on wave, not so? Stirred from their lowest depths the surge Yuxin's waters hard by the icy pole, where undipp'd in the azure waves, Biotees follows his shining win, as does fortune roll on the headlong fates of kings. To be feared they long, and to be feared they dread kindly. Night gives them no safe retreat, and sleep which conquers care soothes not their breasts. What palace has not come answering crime hurled headlong? What palace do impious arms not vex law shame? The sacred bonds of marriage all flee from courts hard in pursuit comes grim Bologna of the bloody hand, and she who frets the proud rhnways forever dogging homes too high, which any hour brings low from high estate. Though arms be idle and treachery give over. Great kingdoms sink of their own weight, and fortune gives way beneath the burden of herself. Sails swollen with favoring breezes, fear blasts too strongly theirs. The tower, which rears its head to the very clouds, is beaten by rainios. The grove, spreading dense shade around seeks oak trees riven tis the high hills that the lightning strike. Large bodies are more to disease exposed, And while common herds stray over vagrant pastures, the head highest upreared is marked for death. Whatever fortune has raised on high she lifts, but to bring low modest estate has longer life than happy. He whoever content with the common lot with safe breeze, hugs the shore, and, fearing to trust his skiff to the wider sea with unambitious ore, keeps close to land. By now, Clytemnestra is on the stage she knows Agamemnon is returning from Troy. Why sluggish soul, do you seek safe counsel? Why waiver? Already the better way is closed. Once you might have guarded your chaste bed and your widowed scepter with pure wifely faith. Gone are good fashions, right doing, honor, piety, faith, and modesty, which, once it's gone, knows no return. Fling loose the reins and forward bent rowse onward all iniquity through crime, ever, is the safe way for crime? Devise now in your own heart a woman's wiles. What any faithless wife beside herself with blind passion? What stepmother's hands have dared? Or what she dared that made ablaze with impious love? Who fled her fascian realm in that thessalian bark? Dare sword, dare poison? Or else? Flee from my scene with the partner of your guilt in stealthy bark. But why timidly talk of dealth, of exile, and of flight such things your sister did you? Some greater crime becomes passions rack me too strong to endure delay. Flames are burning my very marrow, and my heart here fear blent with anguish plies the spur, and my breast throbs with jealousy. Their base love forces its yoke upon my mind, and forbids me to give way. And amidst such fires that beset my soul shame, weary, indeed and conquered and utterly undone, still struggles on by shifting floods. Am I driven as when here wind there tied harries, the deep, and the waters halts, uncertain to which foe they will yield. Wherefore I have let go the rudder from my hands, where wrath, where smart, where hope shall carry me? There will I go to the waves? Have I given my bark where reason fails its best to follow chance? From here Clytemnestra and Ageisthus discussed their plans. Ageistus is ready to do whatever she wants of him, and later, finally their sight of Agamemnon. A messenger arrives first and launches into the story of how it was they sailed back from Troy and all they went through in order to finally reach Argos. When all Pergamum fell beneath the Doric fire, the spoil was divided, and an eager haste all sought the sea and now the warrior eases his side of the sword's weary load, and unheeded, lie the shields along the high stern. The oar is fitted to the warrior's hands, and to their eager haste, all tarrying seems over long. Then, when the signal for return gleamed on the royal ship, and the loud trumpet blast warned the glad rowers, the King's gilded prow leading marked out the way and opened up the course for a thousand ships to follow. A gentle breeze at first steals into our sails and drives our vessels onward. The tranquil waves, scarce, stirring ripple beneath soft zephyr's breathing, and the sea reflects the splendor of the fleet hiding the while beneath It tis sweet to gaze upon the bare shores of Troy, sweet to behold deserted Scigium's waste. The young men all haste to bend the oars with strokes together, air winds with hands, and move their sturdy arms with rhythmics. Wing the furrowed waters, quiver the vessel's sides, hiss through the waves, and dash the blue sea into hoary spray. When a fresher breeze strains the swelling sails, the warriors lay by their oars, trust ship to wind, and stretched along the benches, either watch the far fleeing land as the sails retreat, or rehearse their wars. Brave Hector's threats. The chariot and his ransomed body given to the pyre herquet and jove sprinkled with royal blood. Then too, the Tirini fish plays to and fro in the smooth water, leaps over the heaving seas, with arching back and sports around, now dashing about in circles, now swimming by our side, now gaily leading, and again following after Anon. The band is sheer wantonness, touch the leading brow. Now round and round this thousand ship they swim. Meanwhile on the shore is hid, and the plains sink from view, and dimly the ridges of Ida's mountain appear. And now what alone the keenest eye can see. The smoke of iliums shows, but a dusky spot Already from the yoke. Titan was freeing his horse's weary necks. Now to the stars, his rays sink low. Nowaday goes headlong down a tiny cloud growing to a murky mass stains the bright radiance of the setting sun, and the many colored sunset has made us doubt the sea. Young knight had spangled the sky with stars. The sails deserted by the wind, hung low. Then from the mountain heights there falls a murmur deep Who's threatening? And the wide sweeping shore and the rocky headlands send forth a moaning sound. The waves, lashed by the rising wind, roll high. When suddenly the moon is hid, the stars sink out of sight skywards, the sea is lifted, the heavens are gone. Tis doubly night. Dense fog overwhelms the dark, and all light withdrawn confuses sea and sky from all sides at once. The winds fall on and ravage the sea from its lowest depths. Upturned west wind with East wind, striving south with north, each wields his own weapons with deadly assaults, stirring up the deep, while a whirlwind churns the waves. Strimonian aquillo sends the deep snow whirling, and Libyan auster stirs up the sands of Syrtes Nor stand. The strife with auster, notice heavy with clouds, blows up swells waves with rain, while Urus attacks the dawn, shaking Nabachian realms and eastern gulfs. What raw, fierce chorus, thrusting forth his head from ocean, the whole sky he tears from its foundations, And you might think the very gods falling from the shattered heavens, and black chaos enveloping the world. Flood strives with wind, and wind backward rolls the flood. The sea contains not itself, and rain and waves mingle their waters. Then even this comfort fails their dreadly plight to see at least and know the disaster by which they perish. Darkness weighs on their eyes, and tis the infernal night of awful sticks. Yet fires burst forth, and from the riven clouds gleams the dire lightning flash. And to the poor sailor's great is the sweetness of that fearful gleam. Even for such light, they pray. The fleet itself helps on its own destruction, prow crashing on prow and side on side. One ship, the yawning Deep, sucks into the abyss engulfs and spews forth again, restored to the sea above. One sinks of its own weight, Another turns its wrecked side to the waves, and one, the tenth wave, overwhelms here, battered and stripped of all its ornament, one floats with neither sails, nor oars, nor straight mast, bearing the high sailards a broken hulk drifting wide on the Akarian Sea. Reason experience are of no avail. Skill yields to dire calamity. Horror yields their limbs. The sailors are all stand stupefied, their tasks abandoned. Oars drop from hands to prayer. Abject fear drives the Wretches, and Trojans and Greeks beg the same things of the gods. What can near doom accomplish? Pirus envies his father, Ulysses Ajax, the younger atrides Hector Agamemnon Priam. Whoever at Troy lies slain, is hailed as blessed, who, by deeds of arms, earned death, whom glory guards, whom the land he conquered. Berries do see and the wave bear those who have dared not noble and shall a coward's doom overwhelm brave men, must death be squandered. Whoever of Heaven's gods you are not yet with our sore troubles stated, let your divinity be at last appeased over our calamities. Even Troy would weep. But if your hate is stubborn, and it's your pleasure to send the Greek or race to doom, why would have those perish along with us? For whose sake we perish? Elay the raging sea. This fleet bears Greeks, but it bears Trojans too. They can no more the sea usurps their words, but lo disaster on disaster. Pallace, armed with the bolt of angry Jove, threatening essays whatever she meant, not with spear, not with Ajax, not with Gorgan's rage, but with her father's lightning. And throughout the sky new tempests blow. Ajax alone, undaunted by disaster, keeps up the struggle, him shortening sail with straining Halliard. The hurtling lightning grazed. Another bolt is leveled. This with all her might, Palace launched true with hand back drawn in imitation of her father. Through Ajax. It passed and through his ship, and part of the ship with it, and Ajax it bore away. Then he nothing moved, like some high crag rises flames scorched from the brinding deep cleaves the raging sea with his breast, bursts through the floods, and holding to his wrecked vessel with his hand, drags flames along, shines brightly amidst the darkness of the sea, and illuminates the waves. At last a rock in mad rage, he thunders, too sweet to have conquered all things flood and flame to a vanquished sky, Pallas thunderbolt, And see if led not in terror of the god of war both hector at once and Mars, did I with my soul arm withstand, Nor did together with their Phrygians I conquered? And shall I shrink from you another's weapon with weakling hand you hurl? What if he himself should hurl, when in his madness he would be daring more. Father Neptune, pushing with his trident, overwhelm the rock, thrusting forth his head from the waves' depths, and broke off the drag. This in his fall, Ajax bears down with him, And now he lies by earth and fire and billows overcome. But us shipwrecked mariners, another worse ruined challenges. There is a shallow water, a deceitful shoal of rough boulders, where treacherous Cafarius hides his rocky bass beneath whirling eddies. The sea boils upon the rocks, and ever the flood seethes with its ebb and flow a precipitous headland overhangs, which on either hand looks out upon both stretches of the sea. Hence you may decry your own Pelopian shores and its must which backward curving with its narrow soil, forbids the Ionian sea to join with Phryxus's waves. Hence also Lemnos, infamous for crime, and Calcudon and Owlus, which along delayed the fleet. Seizing this sum at, the father of Palamedes, with a cursed hand raised from the high top a beacon light and with treacherous torch, lured the fleet upon the reefs. There hang the ships, caught on jagged rocks. Some are broken to pieces in the shallow water. The prow of one vessel is carried away, while a part sticks fast upon the rock. One ship crashes with another as it draws back, Both wrecked and wrecking. Now ships fear land and choose the sea towards dawn, the storm's rage is spent. Now that atonement has been made for Ilium, Phoebus returns, and sad day reveals the havoc of the night. And when this messenger Euribaates is finished, Clytemnestra responds, shall I lament or rejoice me at my lord's return? I do rejoice to see him home again, But over our realm's heavy loss, am I forced to grieve? At last? Oh, Father, that does shake the high resounding heavens. Restore to the Greeks their gods appeased. Now, Let every head by crowned with festal wreaths. Let the sacrificial flute give forth sweet strains, and the white victim at the great altars fall, But see a mournful throng with locks unbound. The Trojan women are here, While high above them all, with proud step advancing Phoebus is mad priestess waves the inspired laurel branch. We have another chorus, this one of captive Trojan women. They sing as they approach the palace, with the cursed Trojan prophetess Cassandra among them. Alas how alluring a bane is appointed unto mortals, even dire love of life, though refuge from air, woes upon woes, and death with generous hand invites the wretched a peaceful port of everlasting rest. Nor fear, nor storm of raging fortune disturbs that calm, nor bolt of the harsh thunderer. Peace so deep fears. No citizen's conspiracy, no victor's threatening wrath, no wild seas ruffled by stormy winds, no fierce battle lines or dark cloud raised by barbaric squadrons hoofs, No nations falling with their city's otter overthrow while the hostile flames lay waste the walls. No fe fierce, ungovernable war all bonds. Will he break through? Who dares scorn the fickle gods, Who, on the face of dark Ascheron on fearful Styx, can look unfearful and is bold enough to put an end to life, A match for kings, a match for the high gods? Will he be? Oh, how wretched it is to know not how to die. We saw our country fall on that night of death. When you eu Doric fires ravished Dardania's homes. She not in war, conquered, not by arms, not as afore time by Hercules's arrows fell her, not Pelias and Thedus's son overcame, nor he well beloved by overbrave Polides, when in borrowed arms he shone and drove Troy's sons in flight of false Achilles. Nor when Polide's self, through grief, gave over his fierce resentment, and the Trojan women from the ramparts watching feared his swift attack. Did she lose amid her woes, the crowning glory of suffering conquest bravely for ten long years she stood, faded to perish by one knight's treachery. We saw that feigned gift measureless in bulk, and with our hands trustfully dragged along the Greeks, deadly offering, and often on the threshold of the gate, the noisy footed monster stumbled, bearing with its hold hidden chiefs and war. We might have turned their guile against themselves and caused the Pelasians, by their own trick to fall. Often sounded their jostled shields and low muttering smote our ears. When Peirus grumbled scarce yielding to crafty Ulysses's will, all unafraid, the Trojan youth joy to touch the fatal ropes companies of their own age. Here Astiana's leads. There she to the Thessalian pyre, betrothed, she leading maids, he youths. Gaily do mothers bring votive offerings to the gods. Gaily do fathers approach the shrines. Each wears but one look the city over, and what never sought we saw since Hector's funeral Hecuba was glad and now unhappy? Grief? What first? What last? Will you? Lament? Walls by divine hands, fashioned by our own destroyed temples upon their gods consumed? Time lacks to weep such ills you, o, great father. The Trojan women weep I saw I saw in the old man's throat, the sword of Pirus scarce wet in his scanty blood. Cassandra speaks, Now, restrain your tears, which all time will seek, you, Trojan women, And do you yourselves grieve for your own dead with groans and lamentations? My losses, refuse all sharing cease than your grief for my disasters. I myself shall suffice for the woes of my own house. And the chorus continues, Tis sweet to mingle tears with tears, griefs bring more smart where they wound in solitude. But tis sweet in company to bewail one's friends. Nor shall you, though strong, heroic and inured to woe, a vail, to lament calamities so great. Not the sad nightingale, which from the vernal bough pours forth her liquid song, piping of vitis in ever changing strains. Not the bird, which perching on by Stonian battlements, tells over and over the hidden sins of her cruel lord, will ever be able, with all her passionate lament worthily to mourn your house? Should bright kiknos self haunting mid snowy swans ister and tenais utter his dying song, Should halcions mourn their cakes midst the light waves lapping, when though distrustful, boldly they trust once more to the tranquil ocean, and anxiously on's unsteady nest cherish their young. Should the sad throng which follows the unmarried men bruise their arms along with you, the throng which, by the shrill flute maddened smite their breast to the tower crown'd mother, that for the Phrygian attis they may lament. Not so Cassandra, is their measure for our tears? For what we suffer has out measured measure. But why do you tear off the holy filets from your head? We think the gods should be most reverenced by unhappy souls. These captive women have now spoken to Cassandra, she replies, and the chorus goes on to speak of her rather than to her. Now have our woes overmastered every fear? Neither do I appease the heavenly gods by any prayer, nor should they wish to rage? Have they wherewith to harm me? Fortune herself has exhausted all her powers. What fatherland remains? What father? What sister? Now? Altars and tombs have drunk up my blood? What have that happy throng of brothers gone? All in the empty palace, only sad old men are left. And throughout those many chambers they see all women save her of Sparta, widowed, that mother of so many kings, queen of the Phrygians. Hecuba, fruitful for funeral pyres, proving new laws of fate, has put on beastial form around her ruined walls. Madly she barked, surviving troy Son husband and herself. The bride of Phoebus is suddenly still pallor overspreads her cheeks, and constant tremors master all her frame. Her filets stand erect, her soft locks rise in horror. Her laboring heart sounds loud with pent murmuring. Her glance wanders uncertain. Her eyes seem backward, turned into herself Anon, they stare unmoving. Now she lifts her head into the air, higher than her wont and walks with stately tread. Now makes you unlock her struggling lips. Now vainly tries to close them on her words, a mad priestess fighting against the god. Why o Parnassis's sacred heights? Do you prick me with the furious goads anew? Why do you sweep me on bereft of senses? Away? Oh Phoebus, I am no longer yours quench you? The flames set deep within my breast. For whose sake? Wander eye now in madness? For whose sake? In frenzy rave, Now Troy has fallen? What have I, false prophetess to do? Where am I fled? Is the kindly light? Deep darkness blinds my eyes, and the sky buried in gloom is hidden away. But see with double sun the day gleams forth, and double argos lifts up twin palaces Ida's groves. I see there sits the shepherd fateful judgment midst mighty goddesses, fear him, you kings eye warn you fear the child of stolen love? That rustic foundling shall overturn your house? What means that mad woman with drawn sword in hand hero seeks she with her right hand a spartan in her guard, but carrying an Amazonian axe? What sight is that other which now employs my eyes? The king of beasts, with his proud neck by a base fang, lies low, an African lion suffering the bloody bites of his bold lioness. Why do you summon me, saved only of my house, my kindred shades? You father? Do I follow eye witness of Troy's burial? You brother, help of the Phrygian's terror of the Greeks. I see not in your old time splendor, or with your hands hot from the burning of the ships, but mangled of limb, with those arms wounded by the deep sunk thongs, you Troylus, I follow too early with Achilles met unrecognizable the face you wore, Diphobus, the gift of your new wife to sweet, to fare along the very Stygian pool. Sweet, to behold tartarous is savage dog, and the realms of greedy diss. Today this skiff of murky Phlegethon shall bear royal souls vanquished and vanquisher you shades. I pray you stream on which the gods make oath you no less. I pray for a little withdraw the covering of that dark world that on my scene the shadowy throng of Phrygians may look forth behold poor souls. The fates turned backward on themselves. They press on the squalid sisters, their bloody lashes, brandishing their left hands, half burned torches bare bloated are their pallid cheeks and dusky robes of death. Their hollow loins encircle the fearsome cries of night resound, and a huge body's bones, rotting with long decay. Lie in a slimy marsh, and see that spent old band for getting thirst no longer catches at the mocking waters, grieving a death to come. But father Dardanus exults and walks along with stately tread. With this, Agamemnon returns to the stage and speaks with Cassandra. They speak in riddles, of course, with one not entirely hearing the other. It's pointless anyway. Cassandra knows what's coming, and so Agamemnon re enters the house, now leaving Cassandra on the stage with the chorus of argive women who speak next, Oh, Argos, ennobled by your noble citizens, Argos, dear to the step Dame, though enraged, ever, mighty sons you fostered and have made even the odd number of the gods. That hero of yours, by his twelve labors, earned the right to be chosen for the skies great Hercules, for whom the world's law broken. Jove doubled the hours of dewey night, bade Femis more slowly drive his hastening car, and your team to turn back with laggard feet, Oh, pale phoebe backward. The star turned his steps, the star who changes from name to name, and marveled still to be called Asparis evening Star. Aurora stirred at the accustomed hour of dawn, but sinking back, laid her head and neck upon the breast of her aged husband. The rising yes and the setting of the sun felt the birth of Hercules, a hero so mighty could not be begotten in a single night. For you, the whirling universe stood still, oh boy destined to mount the skies. The lightning swift lion of Nimia, felt your power crushed by your straining arms. And the Parassian hind the ravage of Arcadia's fields felt you too, and loud bellowed the savage bull. Leaving the fields of crete, the hydra fertile and death, he overcame and forbade new berths from each neck, destroyed the maiden brethren, Springing three monsters from a single body, he crushed, leaping on them with his crashing club, and brought to the east the western herd. Spoil of the three formed Caryon. He drove the Thracian herd, which the tyrant fed, not on the grass of stream On or on the banks of the Hebres. Cruel. He offered his savage horses the gore of strangers, and the blood of their driver was the last to stain their red jaws. Warlike, Hippolyta saw the spoil snatched from about her breast, and by his shafts down from the riven sky from high heaven fell the stymphalian bird. The tree, laden with golden fruit, shrank from his hands, unused to such plucking, and the bough, relieved of its burden, sprang into the air. The cold, sleepless guardian heard the sound of the clinking metal only when Heavy laid in Alcides and was leaving the grove for stripped of its tawny gold, dragged to the upper world by triple fetters. The infernal dog was silent, nor with any mouth did he bay, shrinking from the hues of unexperienced light. Under your leadership, fell the lying house of Dardanus, and suffered the arrows once again to be feared. Under your leadership, in as many days Troy fell, as it took years thereafter, and now Cassandra alone on the stage, A great deed is done within a match for ten years of war, Ah, what is this? Rise up, my soul and take the reward of your madness. We are conquerors, We conquered Phrygians' tis well, Troy has risen again. In your fall, Oh father, you have dragged down my scene. Your conqueror gives way. Never before did my mind's prophetic frenzy give sight to my eyes so clear I see, I am in the midst of it. I revel in it. Tis no doubtful image cheats my sight. Let me gaze my fill. A feast is spread within the royal house and thronged with guests, like that last banquet of the Phrygians. The couches gleam with Trojan purple and their wine they coiff from the golden cups of old asaurracas lough. He himself, embroidered vestments, lies on lofty couch, wearing on his body the proud spoils of priam. His wife bids him doff the raiment of his foe, and down instead the mantle of her own, fond hands of woven. I shudder, and my soul trembles at the sight. Shall an exile slay a king, an adulterer, a husband? The fatal hour has come. The banquet's closed shall see the master's blood and gore shall fall into the wine. The deadly mantle he has put on delivers him, bound treacherously to his doom. The loose, impenetrable folds refuse outlet to his hands and enshroud his head with trembling right hand. The half man stabs at his side, but hath not driven deep in mid stroke. He stands as one amazed, but he has in the deep woods a bristling poor though with the net entangled, still tries for freedom, and by his struggling draws close his bonds and rages all in vain. He strives to throw off the blinding folds all around him, floating, and though closely enmeshed, seas for his foe. Now Tindarius's daughter, in mad rage, snatches the two hedged decks as at the altar. The priest marks with his eye the oxen's neck before he strikes. So now here now there her impious hand, she aims, he has it. The deed is done. This scarce severed head hangs by a slender part. Here blood streams over his headless trunk. There lie his moaning lips, and not yet do they give over. He attacks the already lifeless man and keeps hacking at the corpse. She helps him in the stabbing. Each one in this dire crime answers to his own kin. He is Thiestes' son, she Helen's sister see Titan, the day's work done, stands hesitant, whether his own or Thiestes's course to run. Oh wow, that was actually even more fun than I expected. I love Cassandra. I also now I really need to read this plaxcept. I do have to do the eascliss agamm non first, which is why I just want to do this reading. But I do like how clearly Cassandra's like a geese. This did basically nothing. Clyde Amnestra did it all. Also, I just oh, that was fun. I like that that Cassandra at the end there. Also, that's the first time I've tried to just straight read some dialogue like that, Like I really picked. I made sure that there wasn't straight dialogue back and forth because it would have been weird with just one voice. But let me know if you enjoyed that as a reading episode, because if that kind of works, it's more likely that I could do selections from plays. It's just as long as I'm kind of picking and choosing and then adding in those little bits that I did to kind of explain things. So particularly on Spotify where you can now comment, if you like that, let me know or rather, if you find you could, you would definitely like it for more things. Let me know, all right, let's talk about this Baby has written and produced by me Leve Albert Nikaela Pangawish is the Hermes to my Olympians. The producer select music in this episode was by Luke Chaos. The podcast is part of the iHeart podcast Network. Listen on Apple Podcasts or Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. Also, we've got a new newsletter starting up soon where you can stay in touch about all the new and fun things that I've got planned. You can sign up at mythsbaby dot com slash newsletter that's gonna provide more information because we're just unfortunately delaying that ad scripture. I'm not gonna repeat that, delaying that ad subscription a little further. I've been reading too long. So yeah, that's coming. But basically I'm gonna move across the country first because it got delayed by like a months and now it's in the worst possible time. So that'll be happening before the end of the year. It's gonna be exciting. Also, submit your Q and A questions for the next Q and A, which will be in November. Submit those at miss baby dot com slash questions. Thank you all. I am live and I love this shit. Oh I sure do. Seneca's great. I mean, for a Roman, he's really killing it. Pun not intended, but appreciated,