Ah how fine it is, when a man is brought down, to leave a son behind! Orestes took revenge, he killed that cunning, murderous Aegisthus, who’d killed his famous father.
The Zeus’s daughter Helen thought of something else. Into the mixing-bowl from which they drank their wine she slipped a drug, heart’s-ease, dissolving anger, magic to make us all forget our pains . . . No one who drank it deeply, mulled in wine, could let a tear roll down his cheeks that day, not even if his mother should die, his father die, not even if right before his eyes some enemy brought down a brother or darling son with a sharp bronze blade.
But about your destiny, Menelaus, dear to Zeus, it’s not for you to die and meet your fate in the stallion-land of Argos, no, the deathless ones will sweep you off to the world’s end, the Elysian Fields, where gold-haired Rhadamanthys waits, where life glides on in immortal ease for mortal man.