The Argonautica

spoke as he watched them leap forward wearing their armor:

Lord Zeus, what purpose has Pelias? Where does he send

so vast a host of heroes outside Panachaean land?

In a single day they could ravage the halls with destroying fire,

of Aeetes, unless the king grants them the Fleece of his own will.

But none can escape the road; hard is the labor of going.

Thus men spoke here and there throughout the city; the women

again and again raised hands to the immortals in heaven,

praying they grant a heart-gladdening end to homecoming.

And one woman wept to another, lamenting through tears:

Poor Alcimede, evil has reached even you, though late;

your lifetime never reached its end in shining splendor.

Aeson too is so grievously luckless; better for him

if long ago, close wrapped within his burial shroud,

he had lain under earth, still ignorant of cruel trials.

Would that, when maiden Helle died, Phrixus too

the black wave had engulfed with the ram! Yet it uttered

a human voice, an evil portent that would bring sorrows

on Alcimede in time to come, and pains beyond number.

So spoke the women as the heroes went forth on their way.

Already many servants, men and women, had gathered;

his mother clung to his neck; sharp grief pierced each woman,

and with them, Jason's father, crushed by ruinous age,

lay mourning on his bed, close wrapped beneath the covers.