His wretched Mother, like a Priestess,
Began the sacrifice; he threw the cawl
From his dishevel'd hair, that she her Son
Might recognise, nor in his gore imbrue
Her ruthless hands: he touch'd her cheeks and cried;
"I am, I am, O Mother, your own Son,
That Pentheus whom beneath Echion's roof
You bore, take pity on me then, nor slay
Your guilty child."
[tr. Wodhull (1809)]

His mother, as priestess, began the slaughter, and fell upon him. He threw the headband from his head so that the wretched Agave might recognize and not kill him. Touching her cheek, he said: “It is I, mother, your son, Pentheus, whom you bore in the house of Echion. Pity me, mother, and do not kill me, your child, for my sins.”
[tr. Buckley (1850)]

His mother first began the sacrifice,
And fell on him. His bonnet from his hair
He threw, that she might know and so not slay him,
The sad Agave. And he said, her cheek
Fondling, "I am thy child, thine own, my mother!
Pentheus, whom in Echion's house you bare.
Have mercy on me, mother! For his sins,
Whatever be his sins, kill not thy son."
[tr. Milman (1865)]

His mother first essayed the sacrifice
And fell on him: then from his hair he tore
The Phrygian bonnet, that Agave might
Know him and slay him not. Fondling her cheek
He said, I, mother, look, I am thy child,
Pentheus, born from thee in Echion's house;
Alas! my mother, do not kill thy son
For his transgression, pity take on me.
[tr. Rogers (1872), l. 1070ff]

His mother first, a priestess for the nonce, began the bloody deed and fell upon him; whereon he tore the snood from off his hair, that hapless Agave might recognize and spare him, crying as he touched her cheek, “O mother! it is I, thy own son Pentheus, the child thou didst bear in Echion’s halls; have pity on me, mother dear! oh! do not for any sin of mine slay thy own son.”
[tr. Coleridge (1891)]

His mother first, priest-like, began the slaughter,
And fell on him: but from his hair the coif ⁠
He tore, that she might know and slay him not, --
Hapless Agavê! -- and he touched her cheek,
Crying, "'Tis I -- O mother! -- thine own son
Pentheus -- thou bar'st me in Echion's halls!
Have mercy, O my mother! -- for my sin ⁠
Murder not thou thy son -- thy very son!"
[tr. Way (1898)]

'Twas his mother stood
O'er him, first priestess of those rites of blood.
He tore the coif, and from his head away
Flung it, that she might know him, and not slay
To her own misery. He touched the wild
Cheek, crying: "Mother, it is I, thy child,
Thy Pentheus, born thee in Echion's hall!
Have mercy, Mother! Let it not befall
Through sin of mine, that thou shouldst slay thy son!"
[tr. Murray (1902)]

His own mother,
like a priestess with her victim, fell upon him
first. But snatching off his wig and snood
so she would recognize his face, he touched her cheeks,
screaming, "No, no, Mother! I am Pentheus,
your own son, the child you bore to Echion!
Pity me, spare me, Mother! I have done a wrong,
but do not kill your own son for my offense."
[tr. Arrowsmith (1960)]

First his mother started the slaughter as priestess
and falls upon him; he hurled away the snood
from his hair, for the wretched Agaue to recognize
and not kill him -- and says, touching
her cheek, “Look, it is I, mother, your child
Pentheus, whom you bore in the house of Echion!
Take pity on me, mother, and do not by reason of my
errors murder your own child!”
[tr. Kirk (1970)]

First his mother, as priestess, began the ritual of death, and fell upon him. He tore off the headband from his hair, that his wretched mother might recognize him and not kill him. "Mother!" he cried, touching her cheek, "it is I, your son, Pentheus, whom you bore to Echion. O mother, have mercy on me; I have sinned, but I am your son: do not kill me!"
[tr. Vellacott (1973)]

His mother
First at the sacrifice of her own son
Fell upon him, angry priestess at the rites of death.
Pentheus, still miraculously alive, tore off wig
And snood, touched her face and hoped for recognition.
He mouthed a last despairing plea in silence, his voice
Broken from the fall.
[tr. Soyinka (1973)]

First came his mother, high priestess of the murder,
and fell upon him, while he threw the ribbon
from his hair so she might recognize him and not kill him,
poor Agave, touching her cheek and saying:
It’s me, mother, me, your son
Pentheus, whom you gave birth to in Echion’s house;
take pity on me, mother, and for my
trespassing do not kill your own son.
[tr. Neuburg (1988)]

His mother,
as priestess of the ritual killing,
was first to fall upon him.
He stripped his head, tore everything away,
hoping that Agave, wretched woman,
would know him and not kill him.
He touched her cheeks and cried:
"No, Mother, no, it is I,
your child, your Pentheus, born to you in Echion's house!
Have pity on me, Mother, I have wronged
but do not kill your son for my offense, not me, your son!"
[tr. Cacoyannis (1982)]

First Agaue, priestess of the kill, began
And fell upon him. He stripped his mitre
From his head, so poor Agaue would know
And not kill him, and said touching
Her cheek, “It’s me, mother, your child
Pentheus, whom you bore in Echion’s house.
Pity me, mother, don’t murder
Me, your son, for my sins!”
[tr. Blessington (1993)]

It was his own mother who first, as sacred priestess, began the slaughter
and falls upon him. He threw the headband from his hair
hoping that the wretched Agae, recognizing her son, might not kill him.
Touching her cheek, he spoke:
"It is I, mother, your son
Pentheus to whom you gave birth in the house of Echion.
Take pity, mother, and do not,
Because of my errors, kill your son."
[tr. Esposito (1998)]

His mother was the first at the killing. She was priestess,
and she rushed to attack him. He tore off his headband
in hopes she would recognize him, not kill him.
He reached out to her cheek, miserable Agavê’s,
and said, “I am yours, Mother, your child Pentheus.
You gave me birth in the house of Echion.
Pity me, Mother. I have made mistakes.
But do not kill your own son because of them.”
[tr. Woodruff (1999)]

As priestess, to begin the slaughter. She
Falls on him and he tears the headband from
His hair so that wretched Agaué will
Recognize him, not kill him, and he touches
Her cheek as he begins to say to her,
“Mother, it’s Pentheus, your child! It’s me!
You gave birth to me in Ekhion’s house.
Have pity on me, Mother! Don’t kill me
For my wrongdoing!”
[tr. Gibbons/Segal (2000), l. 1262ff]

His mother was the priestess and began the killing, hurling herself upon him. He, however, wrenched the headdress from his hair so that poor Agave would recognize him and not kill him. He put his hand to her cheek and said, "It's me, mother, Pentheus, the son you bore in Echion's house! Have pity on me, mother! I have sinned, but do not kill your own son!"
[tr. Kovacs (2002)]

His mother was the first to fall on him,
Frantically, from his face, he pulled his shawl
So that she might recognize him,
He touched her cheek, he implored her,
"It is me, mother, your son, Pentheus,
Pentheus whom you bore to Echion.
Have mercy, mother, do not kill me,
For all that I've done wrong, I'm still your son."
[tr. Teevan (2002)]

The first to fall on him was his own mother! [...] Pentheus pulled his robe aside so that she could see his face, and cried, "Mother! It is I, your Pentheus, born from your own womb! Have mercy, mother. Let it not come to pass that my sins cause you to slay your son!"
[tr. Rao/Wolf (2004)]

First it was his mother, Dionysos’ priestess. She started the slaughter. She jumped upon him with anger and he took the ribbon from his head so that his mother would recognize him and spare him and patted her cheek softly. “It’s me, mother,” he said, “your son, Pentheus. You gave birth to me, mother, in Echion’s palace! Have pity on me, mother! Don’t kill me, don’t kill your son just because he’s made a mistake.”
[tr. Theodoridis (2005)]

His own mother presided as priestess of the
slaughter and started first by falling upon him; and he threw his
sash from off of his hair so that poor, wretched Agave might
recognize, instead of kill, him.
And he says to her, reaching out for her cheek, "It's me mother, your son
Pentheus, who you bore to Echion.
Have mercy on me mother please: don't kill your own son
because of his mistakes."
[tr. Valerie (2005)]

She hurled herself at him. Pentheus tore off
his headband, untying it from his head,
so wretched Agave would recognize him,
so she wouldn't kill him. Touching he cheek,
he cried out, "It's me, mother, Pentheus,
your child. You gave birth to me at home,
in Echion's house. Pity me, mother --
Don't kill your child because I've made mistakes."
[tr. Johnston (2008), l. 1383ff]

His own mother,
like a priestess with her sacrifice, fell on him first.
But he snatched off his head-dress and wig
so she could see who he was.
He reached out his hand to touch her cheek
And cried out: "Mother! Mother! Look!
It's me, Pentheus, your own son!
The son you bore to Echion!
Spare me, Mother, I beg you!
I have done wrong, perhaps,
but you cannot kill your son!"
[tr. Robertson (2014)]

Like a priestess at the sacrificial altar, his mother began the slaughter. Poor Agave. He loosened the band from his hair that she might know him. He touched her cheek, saying, "I am your son, Pentheus, whom you bore in Echion's house -- have pity on me, mother, though I have sinned. Do not kill your son."
[tr. Behr/Foster (2019)]

His own mother, as priestess, began the slaughter, and fell upon him. He threw the miter from his head so that wretched Agaue might recognize and not kill him. Touching her cheek, he said: “It is I, mother, your son Pentheus, whom you bore in the house of Ekhion. Pity me, mother! Do not kill me, your child, for my errors!”
[tr. Buckley/Sens/Nagy (2020)]

His priestess-mother got the killing going,
attacking him. He tore off his headdress
so she would know him and not kill him,
poor Agave. Touching her face, he said:
“It’s me, mother. Your son, Pentheus.
You bore me in Echion’s house.
O mother, have mercy on me.
Don’t kill your son over his mistake.”
[tr. Benn (2022)]

Or fly'st thou me? by these tears, this right hand,
(Since nothing else remains to woefull me)
Our marriage, our prepar'd solemnity.
If I have well deserv'd, or ought was mine,
Pity a falling house, change this designe
If prayers have power.
[tr. Ogilby (1649)]

See whom you fly! am I the foe you shun?
Now, by those holy vows, so late begun,
By this right hand, (since I have nothing more
To challenge, but the faith you gave before;)
I beg you by these tears too truly shed,
By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;
If ever Dido, when you most were kind,
Were pleasing in your eyes, or touch'd your mind;
By these my pray'rs, if pray'rs may yet have place,
Pity the fortunes of a falling race.
[tr. Dryden (1697)]

Wilt thou fly from me? By these tears, by that right hand, (since I have left nothing else to myself now, a wretch forlorn,) by our nuptial rights, by our conjugal loves begun; if I have deserved any thanks at they hand, or if ever you saw any charms in me, take pity, I implore thee, on a falling race, and, if yet there is any room for prayers, lay aside your resolution.
[tr. Davidson/Buckley (1854)]

From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,
By these poor tears, that hand you gave --
Since, parting with my woman's pride,
My madness leaves me nought beside --
By that our wedlock, by the rite
Which, but begun, could yet unite,
If e'er my kindness held you bound,
If e'er in me your joy you found,
Look on this falling house, and still,
If prayer can touch you, change your will.
[tr. Conington (1866)]

Fly'st thou from me?
Ah, by these tears, and by this hand of thine
(Since to me, wretched, nothing else is left).
By our marriage tie, our nuptial rites begun.
If any favor I deserved of thee,
Or if in anything I have been sweet
And dear to thee, pity this falling house!
I do beseech thee, if there yet be room
For entreaty, change, ah, change that fixed intent!
[tr. Cranch (1872), l. 406ff]

Fliest thou from me? me who by these tears and thine own hand beseech thee, since naught else, alas! have I kept mine own—by our union and the marriage rites preparing; if I have done thee any grace, or aught of mine hath once been sweet in thy sight,—pity our sinking house, and if there yet be room for prayers, put off this purpose of thine.
[tr. Mackail (1885)]

Yea, me thou fleest. O by these tears, by that right hand of thine,
Since I myself have left myself unhappy nought but this,
And by our bridal of that day and early wedding bliss,
If ever I were worthy thanks, if sweet in aught I were,
Pity a falling house! If yet be left a space for prayer,
O then I pray thee put away this mind of evil things!
[tr. Morris (1900)]

"Me dost thou fly? O, by these tears, thy hand
Late pledged, since madness leaves me naught beside,
By lovers' vows and wedlock's sacred band,
Scarce knit and now too soon to be untied;
If aught were pleasing in a new-won bride,
If sweet the memory of our marriage day,
O by these prayers -- if place for prayer abide --
In mercy put that cruel mind away.
Pity a falling house, now hastening to decay.
[tr. Taylor (1907), st. 40, l. 352ff]

Is it from me
thou takest flight? O, by these flowing tears,
by thine own plighted word (for nothing more
my weakness left to miserable me),
by our poor marriage of imperfect vow,
if aught to me thou owest, if aught in me
ever have pleased thee -- O, be merciful
to my low-fallen fortunes! I implore,
if place be left for prayer, thy purpose change!
[tr. Williams (1910)]

From me dost thou flee? By these tears and thy right hand, I pray thee -- since naught else, alas! have I left myself -- by our marriage, by the wedlock begun, if ever I deserved well of thee, or if aught of mine has been sweet in thy sight, pity a falling house, and if yet there be any room for prayers, put away this purpose of thine.
[tr. Fairclough (1916)]

I am the one you flee from: true? I beg you
By my own tears, and your right hand -- (I have nothing
Else left my wretchedness) -- by the beginnings
Of marriage, wedlock, what we had, if ever
I served you well, if anything of mine
Was ever sweet to you, I beg you, pity
A falling house; if there is room for pleading
As late as this, I plead, put off that purpose.
[tr. Humphries (1951)]

Am I your reason for going? By these tears, by the hand you gave me --
They are all I have left, today, in my misery -- I implore you,
And by our union of hearts, by our marriage hardly begun,
If I have ever helped you at all, if anything
About me pleased you, be sad for our broken home, forgo
Your purpose, I beg you, unless it's too late for prayers of mine!
[tr. Day Lewis (1952)]

Do you flee me? By tears, by your right hand --
This sorry self is left with nothing else --
by wedding, by the marriage we began,
if I did anything deserving of you
or anything of mine was sweet to you,
take pity on a fallen house, put off
your plan, I pray -- if there is still place for prayers.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1971), l. 422ff]

Do you go to get away from me? I beg you,
By these tears, by your own right hand, since I
Have left my wretched self nothing but that --
Yes, by the marriage that we entered on,
If ever I did well and you were grateful
Or found some sweetness in a gift from me,
Have pity now on a declining house!
Put this plan by, I beg you, if a prayer
Is not yet out of place.
[tr. Fitzgerald (1981), l. 429ff]

Is it me you are running away from? I beg you, by these tears, by the pledge you gave me with your own right hand -- I hav enothing else left me now in my misery -- I beg you by our union, by the marriage we have begun -- if I have deserved any kindness from you, if you have ever loved anything about me, pity my house that is falling around me, and I implore you, if it is not too late for prayers, give up this plan of yours.
[tr. West (1990)]

Is it me you run from? I beg you, by these tears, by your own
right hand (since I’ve left myself no other recourse in my misery),
by our union, by the marriage we have begun,
if ever I deserved well of you, or anything of me
was sweet to you, pity this ruined house, and if
there is any room left for prayer, change your mind.
[tr. Kline (2002)]

Is it me you are fleeing?
By these tears, I beg you, by your right hand,
Which is all I have left, by your wedding vows,
Still so fresh -- if I have ever done anything
To deserve your thanks, if there is anything in me
That you found sweet, pity a house destined to fall,
And if there is still room for prayers, I beg you,
Please change your mind.
[tr. Lombardo (2005)]

Is it me you run from?
By my tears and your promise
(nothing else is left me in my grief),
by our wedding, by the marriage we've begun,
if I deserve anything from you, if you found me
at all pleasing, pity my poor home, I beg,
if there's still time to beg.
[tr. Bartsch (2021)]