Chorus
No! None but the sons of noble Erechtheus
should rule these halls!

If this plan fails—if her chance slips away—
if the hope that holds her up now collapses—
she’ll take the knife, or tie the noose,
and trade one sorrow for another.
She’ll go down to the dark,
because no daughter of a royal house
will live to see strangers reigning in her home.

(They cluster together, voices rising in anger.)

Chorus (chanting bitterly)
I blush for Apollo, god of song—
if this vagabond boy joins the torch-dance
at Callichorus’ springs,
the dance that greets the twentieth dawn,
beneath the starry sky,
with moonlight and Nereus’ daughters
skimming the sea in silver steps—
all in honor of the golden-crowned maiden
and her mighty mother—
while this stranger, this pawn of Phoebus,
thinks to rule,
stealing the toil of others!

Chorus (turning fierce)
Listen, poets! You who spit venom in your songs,
mocking women for their loves, their secrets—
look at men! See how far their treachery runs!
Change your tune!
Brand men for faithlessness!
This son of Zeus—this so-called noble lord—
betrays his wife, denies her children,
and courts a foreign love,
bringing home a bastard son!

(They break off as a Servant rushes in, breathless.)

Servant
Women! Where is your mistress—Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus?
I’ve searched every street, every corner—
I can’t find her!

Chorus
What is it? Why are you running? What news?

Servant
I’m hunted! They’re after her—
the rulers of this land want her stoned to death!

Chorus
Gods! What are you saying?
Don’t tell me—they’ve discovered the plot?

Servant
You guessed it. And you won’t escape it either.

Chorus
How? How did they find out?

Servant
The god himself exposed it—
justice against wrong.
He would not let his shrine be stained with murder.

Chorus
Tell us everything!
If we must die—or live—
let us at least know why.

Servant
Listen. When Xuthos left the oracle,
taking his new-found son,
he planned a feast—a sacrifice to the gods.
He went to the twin peaks of Dionysus,
where the Bacchic flames leap high,
to slaughter heifers and honor the birth.

Before he left, he said to the boy:
“My son, stay here.
Raise a great tent—make it splendid.
If I’m gone long,
spread the feast for all our friends.”

Then he took the cattle and went his way.

Meanwhile, the boy—Apollo’s gift—
set to work.
He marked out the space—long and wide—
a hundred feet each way,
ten thousand feet in all,
big enough for all Delphi to dine.

From the temple treasury he took rich tapestries—
a dazzling sight.
First, he draped the roof with robes
Heracles once gave the god,
spoils from the Amazons.
On them were woven wonders:
the heavens blazing with stars,
the sun driving his fiery steeds,
evening star at his heels,
Night in black robes rushing by,
drawn by a single pair,
stars in her train.
The Pleiades sailed across the sky,
Orion with his sword,
the Bear circling the golden pole.
The moon’s full face glowed bright,
the Hyades guiding sailors,
and Dawn chasing the stars away.

On the sides—more marvels:
barbarian ships attacking Hellas,
monsters half-man, half-beast,
the capture of Thracian steeds,
hunts of lions and stags.
And at the entrance—Cecrops,
coiled beside his daughters,
woven in Athenian pride.

(The Servant pauses, breathless, as the Chorus leans in.)