Euripides, Rhesus 882–949: Exodos: the Muse mourns her son Rhesus

Why does fate change and bring Troy once again to mourning after her great good fortune, planting what seeds? Oh, oh! What deity above our heads, O king, bears in her hands as on a bier the newly slain corpse? I shudder at this sight of woe.

Behold me, Trojans; for I, the Muse, one of the nine sisters, that have honor among the wise, I am here, having seen the piteous death his foes have dealt my darling son. Yet the crafty Odysseus, that slew him, one day hereafter shall pay a fitting penalty.

O my son, your mother’s grief, I mourn for you in my native strains of woe! What a journey you made to Troy, a very path of ill-fortune and sorrow! starting, in spite of all my warnings and your father’s earnest prayers, in defiance of us. Woe to me for you, my dear, dear son! Ah, woe!

As far as one can who has no common tie of kin, I bewail and mourn your son.

Curses on the son of Oeneus! Curses on Laertes’ child! who has bereft me of my fair son and left me childless! and on that woman, too, that left her home in Hellas, and sailed here with her Phrygian lover, bringing death to you, my dearest, for the sake of Troy, and emptying countless cities of their brave heroes.

Many indeed are the wounds, Thamyris, son of Philammon, that you have inflicted on my heart, in your life and in your death. Yes, for it was your pride, your own undoing, and your rivalry with the Muses that made me mother of this poor son of mine. For as I crossed the river’s streams I came too near to Strymon’s fruitful couch, that day we Muses came to the brow of Mount Pangaeus with its soil of gold, furnished forth with all our music for one great trial of minstrel skill with that clever Thracian bard; and we blinded him, Thamyris, the man who often reviled our craft. And then, when I gave birth to you, because I felt shame of my sisters and my virginity, I sent you to the swirling stream of your father, the river; and Strymon did not entrust your nurture to mortal hands, but to the fountain nymphs. There you were reared most fairly by the maiden nymphs, and you ruled over Thrace, a leader among men, my child. So long as you ranged your native land in quest of bloody deeds of prowess I did not fear for your death; but I forbade you to set out for Troy, in my knowledge of your doom; but Hector’s sages and those countless embassies persuaded you to go and help your friends. This was your doing, Athena; you alone are to blame for his death —neither Odysseus nor the son of Tydeus had anything to do with it—do not think it has escaped my eye. And yet we sister Muses do special honor to your city, your land we chiefly haunt; and those dark mysteries with their torch processions were revealed by Orpheus, cousin of this dead man whom you have slain. Musaeus, too, your holy citizen, of all men most advanced in lore, was trained by Phoebus and us, the nine sisters. And here is your reward for this; in my arms I hold my child and mourn for him. I’ll bring to you no other learned man.