Free Four Tragedies and Octavia by Séneca

same sun may see fallen at its departing. 1
    No man should put his trust in the smile of fortune,
    No man abandon hope in a time of trouble.
    The Spinner of Fate twines good and bad together,
    Never lets fortune rest, keeps all things moving.
    Never was man so sure of the good gods’ favour
    That he could promise himself a safe tomorrow.
    Under God’s hand, life’s circle is ever revolving,
    The swift wheel turning.
    ACT FOUR
Messenger, Chorus
    MESSENGER : O that some whirling wind would carry me
    Away into the sky, or wrap my head
    In darkest clouds, to banish from my sight
    So foul a deed! O Tantalus, O Pelops!
    This house would fill even your souls with shame.
    CHORUS : What is your news?
    MESSENGER :                        What country are we in?
    The land of Argos, and of Sparta, where
    Two brothers 1 dwelt in love and harmony,
    Of Corinth, buttress ’twixt two warring seas –
    Or in the wild Danubian lands that shelter
    Fugitive Vandals, or the eternal snows
    Of Caucasus, the nomad Scyths’ domain?
    What country is it that can be the scene
    Of such unspeakable abomination?
    CHORUS : Whatever evil you have seen, reveal it.
    MESSENGER : First let the tumult of my mind be stilled,
    And fear release my body from its grip.
    A picture of the brutal deed still floats
    Before my eyes. Carry me far away,
    Wild winds! Far from this place! Take me away
    To where the journey of the daylight ends!
    CHORUS : You only hold us longer in suspense;
    Describe this deed you shudder at, and name
    The author of it; nay, I ask not ‘who’,
    But ‘which of them’. Come, speak without delay.
    MESSENGER : Part of the royal house of Pelops stands
    Upon the summit of the citadel,
    Facing the west, and at its outer edge
    It towers above the city like a mountain
    Ready to crush the people, should they rise
    In insolent revolt against their kings.
    Within this building is a huge apartment
    Spacious enough to hold a multitude,
    A hall of dazzling brilliance; golden beams
    Rest upon handsome many-coloured pillars.
    Behind this public space, to which the people
    Freely resort, extends the private palace,
    Room after room, of great luxuriance.
    Deep in the secret heart of this domain,
    Down in a hollow, is an ancient grove,
    The sanctuary of the royal house.
    Here grow no trees of pleasant aspect, none
    That any pruner’s knife has cultivated;
    Yew and dark cypress and black ilex twine
    A tangled canopy of shade; above,
    A tall oak towers and dominates the grove.
    This is the place in which the royal sons
    Of Tantalus consult the auspices
    And pray for help in danger or defeat.
    The trees are hung with offerings, with horns
    That called to battle, pieces of the chariot 1
    Won at the sea of Myrto – when the wheels
    Of the defeated car were treacherously
    Loosed from the axle; trophies of every crime
    Committed by this family are here;
    And here is hung the Phrygian crown of Pelops,
    A painted cloak from a barbarian foe,
    And many other spoils of victory.
    A spring, under the shadow of the trees,
    Forlornly drips and spreads its sluggish water
    Into a sombre pool; like that dark river
    Styx, by whose name the gods are known to swear
    Under this ground, at dead of night, ’tis said
    The gods of death are heard to utter groans;
    Chains rattle in the grove, and spirits cry.
    There sights are seen that mortals quake to hear of.
    The ghosts of men of ancient time emerge
    From their old tombs and wander in the wood;
    Spectres more strange than any known elsewhere
    Invade the place; flames flicker on the trees,
    And neighbouring roofs appear to be on fire,
    Though no fire burns within. Sometimes the grove
    Is filled with sounds of barking, thrice repeated;
    Sometimes gigantic phantoms haunt the palace.
    Daylight brings no relief from these alarms;
    The grove’s own darkness is the dark of night,
    And even at high noon the ghostly