Long was the space of intervening time, and the feats of the mighty Hercules and the hatred of his step-mother had filled the earth. { Returning} victorious from Oechalia, he is preparing a sacrifice which he had vowed to Cenæan Jupiter,[16] when tattling Rumour (who takes pleasure in adding false things to the truth, and from a very little { beginning}, swells to a great bulk by her lies) runs before to thy ears, Deïanira, { to the effect} that the son of Amphitryon is seized with a passion for Iole. As she loves him, she believes it; and being alarmed with the report of this new amour, at first she indulges in tears and in her misery gives vent to her grief in weeping. Soon, however, she says, "But why do I weep? My rival will be delighted with these tears; and since she is coming I must make haste, and some contrivance must be resolved on while it is { still} possible, and while, as yet, another has not taken possession of my bed. Shall I complain, or shall I be silent? Shall I return to Calydon, or shall I stay here? Shall I depart from this abode? or, if nothing more, shall I oppose { their entrance}? What if, O Meleager, remembering that I am thy sister, I resolve on a desperate deed, and testify, by murdering my rival, how much, injury and a woman's grief can effect?"
Her mind wavers, amid various resolves. Before them all, she prefers to send the garment dyed in the blood of Nessus, to restore strength to his declining love. Not knowing herself what she is giving, she delivers { the cause of} her own sorrows to the unsuspecting Lichas,[17] and bids him, in gentle words, to deliver this most fatal gift to her husband. In his ignorance, the hero receives it, and places upon his shoulders the venom of the Lernæan Echidna. He is placing frankincense on the rising flames, and { is offering} the words of prayer, and pouring wine from the bowl upon the marble altars. The virulence of the bane waxes warm, and, melted by the flames, it runs, widely diffused over the limbs of Hercules. So long as he is able, he suppresses his groans with his wonted fortitude. After his endurance is overcome by his anguish, he pushes down the altars, and fills the woody Oeta with his cries. There is no { further} delay; he attempts to tear off the deadly garment; { but} where it is torn off, it tears away the skin, and, shocking to relate, it either sticks to his limbs, being tried in vain to be pulled off, or it lays bare his mangled limbs, and his huge bones. The blood itself hisses, just as when a red hot plate { of metal is} dipped in cold water; and it boils with the burning poison. There is no limit { to his misery}; the devouring flames prey upon his entrails, and a livid perspiration flows from his whole body; his half-burnt sinews also crack; and his marrow being { now} dissolved by the subtle poison, lifting his hands towards the stars { of heaven}, he exclaims, "Daughter of Saturn, satiate thyself with my anguish; satiate thyself, and look down from on high, O cruel { Goddess}, at this { my} destruction, and glut thy relentless heart. Or, if I am to be pitied even by an enemy (for an enemy I am to thee), take away a life insupportable through these dreadful agonies, hateful, too, { to myself}, and { only} destined to trouble. Death will be a gain to me. It becomes a stepmother to grant such a favour.