Jealous Death suspects Apollo of intention to interfere a second time with his rights. Apollo says he has no idea of using with Death any plea but justice. Whereupon Death significantly slanting at Apollo's customary weapon:

Death. What need of bow, were justice arms enough?
Apollo. Ever it is my wont to bear the bow.

De. Ay, and with bow, not justice, help this house.
Ap. I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me, too.
De. And now wilt force from me this second corpse?
Ap. By force I took no corpse at first from thee.
De. How, then, is he above ground-not beneath?
Ap. He gave his wife, instead of him, thy prey.
De. And prey, this time at least, I bear below!
Ap. Go, take her! for I doubt persuading thee-
De. To kill the doomed one? What my function else?
Ap. No! Rather to despatch the true mature.
De. Truly I take thy meaning-see thy drift!
Ap. Is there a way, then, she may reach old age?
De. No way! I glad me in my honors, too!
Ap. But, young or old, thou tak'st one life--no more
De. Younger they die, greater my praise redounds!
Ap. If she die old—the sumptuous funeral !

De. Thou layest down a law the rich would like !

Ap. How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?

De. Who could buy substitutes would die old men.
Ap. It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?
De. This grace I will not grant; thou know'st my ways!
Ap. Ways harsh to men, hateful to gods, at least!

De. All things thou canst not have my rights for me!

Apollo retorts with a vague prophecy that Heracles will soon be at hand to rob Death after all of his prey. Death rejoins once again with a savage show of his grinning teeth, as Apollo withdraws. Apollo gone, a chorus of sympathizers assemble at the palace door, to learn about the progress of events within. Knowing what impends, they inquire, draw inferences, and bewail, by turns. Is Alcestis dead? But there is no sound of lamenting to be heard. Can the corpse

have been already carried forth? No signs appear that this has happened.

Presently the full chorus join in symphony accentuated, we are to suppose, with rhythmic movement in dance. We omit this passage. A palace-maid comes out, who describes to the chorus the beautiful behavior of Alcestis about to die, as follows:

Hear what she did indoors, and wonder then!
For, when she felt the crowning day was come,
She washed with river waters her white skin,
And, taking from the cedar closets forth
Vesture and ornament, bedecked herself

Nobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed:

Mistress, because I now depart the world,

Falling before thee the last time, I ask—
Be mother to my orphans! wed the one
To a kind wife, and make the other's mate
Some princely person: nor, as I who bore
My children perish, suffer that they, too,
Die all untimely, but live, happy pair,
Their full glad life out in the fatherland !"
And every altar through Admetos' house
She visited and crowned and prayed before,
Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs
Without a tear, without a groan-no change
At all to that skin's nature, fair to see,
Caused by the imminent evil. But this done,
Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed,
There, truly, burst she into tears, and spoke:

But, when of many tears she had her fill,

She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth,
Yet forth the chamber-still keeps turning back,
And casts her on the couch again once more.
Her children, clinging to their mother's robe,
Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms,
And, as a dying woman might, embraced
Now one and now the other: 'neath the roof,
All of the household servants wept as well,
Moved to compassion for their mistress; she

Extended her right hand to all and each,
And there was no one of such low degree
She spoke not to nor had an answer from.
Such are the evils in Admetos' house.
Dying-why, he had died; but, living, gains
Such grief as this he never will forget!

There is more description from the palace attendant of what was passing within, accompanied or interchanged with more choral lamentation. Mr. Browning, while a sad procession issues from the palace, avails himself of the occasion to introduce a considerable passage of interpretation and interpolation highly characteristic of his very peculiar genius. This we omit of course-not because it is devoid of interest, but for the twofold reason that it would be somewhat obscure to those not already versed in Browning, and that it does not belong to Euripides. Now appears dying Alcestis with her husband, her son, and the chorus. Poor Alcestis, with that Greek love of light, would see the sun once more. The dialogue that ensues, if dialogue it should be called, say, rather, the monologue-apostrophe of Alcestis interrupted by exclamations from Admetus which she, in her rapt state, at first does not heed-this passage, whatever it is to be styled, deserves to be given. Mr. Browning at this point breaks in so much with matter not of Euripides that we forsake him for the moment to take up here the version of Mr. Potter :

Alcestis. Thou sun, and thou fair light of day! ye clouds
That in quick eddies whirl along the sky!

Admetus. Sees thee and me most wretched, yet in naught
Offending 'gainst the gods that thou shouldst die.
Alc. O earth, ye tower'd roofs, thou bridal bed,
Raised in Iolcos, my paternal seat !

Adm. O thou poor sufferer, raise thee, leave me not;
Intreat the powerful gods to pity thee.

Alc. I see the two-oar'd boat, the Stygian barge;

And he that wafts the dead grasps in his hand
His pole, and calls me: "Why dost thou delay?

Haste thee; thou lingerest; all is ready here!"
Charon, impatient, speeds me to be gone.

Adm. A melancholy voyage this to me.

O thou unhappy, what a fate is ours!

Alc. He drags me, some one drags me to the gates
That close upon the dead; dost thou not see
How stern he frowns beneath his gloomy brows,
The impetuous Pluto? What wouldst thou with me?
Off, let me go. Ah, what a dreary path,

Wretched, most wretched, must I downward tread !
Adm. To thy friends mournful, most to me, and these
Thy children, who with me this sorrow share.
Alc. No longer hold me up, hold me no longer;

Here lay me down: I have not strength to stand;
Death is hard by: dark night creeps o'er my eyes.
My children, O, my children, now no more,
Your mother is no more: farewell; may you,
More happy, see the golden light of heaven!

Adm. Ah, what a mournful word is this! to me

Than any death more painful: by the gods

Forsake me not; shouldst thou be taken from me,
I were no more; in thee I live; thy love,
Thy sweet society, my soul reveres.

We may now return to Mr. Browning for the speech in which Alcestis, becoming conscious once more of Admetus, adjures him to be true to her own memory, and, for their joint sake, to their children:

Alkestis. Admetos, how things go with me thou seest,
I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things
I will should follow. I-to honor thee,
Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange,
Continued looking on the daylight here—
Die for thee-yet, if so I pleased, might live.

Do me in turn a favor-favor, since
Certainly I shall never claim my due,
For nothing is more precious than a life:
But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say.
Loving our children here no less than I,

If head and heart be sound in thee at least.
Uphold them, make them masters of my house,
Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair,
Who, being a worse wife than I, through spite
Will raise her hand against both thine and mine;
Never do this at least, I pray to thee!

Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed,
Husband, the boast remains permissible,
Thou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you
Children, as good a mother gave you birth.

The chorus cheerfully undertake for Admetus that he will perform his wife's wishes. Admetus also answers up for himself. He mixes, it will be seen, a bitter dash of the unfilial with the overflowing sweet of his conjugal:

Admetos. Fear not, and, since I had thee living, dead
Alone wilt thou be called my wife: no fear

That some Thessalian ever styles herself
Bride, hails this man for husband in thy place!

And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief,
But grief that lasts while my own days last, love—
Love, for my hate is she who bore me, now,
And him I hate, my father: loving ones,
Truly, in word, not deed! But thou didst pay
All dearest to thee down, and buy my life,
Saving me so! Is there not cause enough
That I, who part with such companionship
In thee, should make my moan?

But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine,
So that to Koré crying, or her lord,
In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee,
Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dog
Nor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across,
Should stay me till again I made thee stand
Living, within the light! But, failing this,
There, where thou art, await me when I die,
Make ready our abode, my house-mate still!