it might even be that brilliant characters, through the esteem they harbor for your works,<hr>
cause you to discourse in languages that have not yet been invented, and that, in the<hr>
radiance of your glory, they deem to add something to theirs by publishing them. Speak<br>
therefore, Theopompus, speak therefore, Isocrates, of the values of Mausolus and the love of Artemisia so that<br>
all men might discuss them after you. But do not imagine that there is any <br>
vanity in my request. No, Isocrates, I do not wish for you to seek in my person<br>
or in my life anything to deliver a magnificent praise. I do not want you to recount that I was<br>
born with the crown of Halicarnassus. I do not wish for you to reveal that, despite my female<br>
condition, I mastered the art of ruling. I do not wish for you to impart onto posterity<br>
the extraordinary esteem that the great Xerxes held for me. I do not wish for you to say that<br>
I journeyed to Greece with him. I do not wish for you to declare that I held the foremost<br>
place in his council and that my recommendations were always heeded. I do not wish for<br>
you to speak of the exploits that I accomplished during that war nor of the excessive reward<br>
that the Athenians promised to whoever would deliver me into their hands. I only desire<br>
that you affirm that Artemisia was the queen of Caria because she had married<br>
Mausolus who was its king, that Artemisia never had any other passion than that of loving <br>
her husband perfectly, that after having lost him, she lost the desire to live, and finally that after<br>
this calamity, Artemisia had no other concern than to perpetuate his memory. But after <br>
having said all these things and having praised Mausolus as much as he deserved, after having displayed my<br>
sorrow, or rather my despair as intense as it is, do not forget to teach posterity that after having built the most sumptuous monument ever seen, I could not<br>
find an urn worthy to contain his ashes. The crystal, alabaster and all precious stones<br>
produced by nature did not seem to express my affection enough. It<br>
was not enough to be only magnificent and generous to give him a golden urn<br>
covered with diamonds, but to offer him my heart as an urn, I had to be Artemisia.<br>
       It is here, Isocrates, where I entomb the ashes of my dear lord; it is here,<br>
Theopompus, where I lay these precious relics, eagerly awaiting for his tomb<br>
to be ready to receive this immortality that I have bestowed up him. It is indeed my heart that<br>
should serve as an urn for the ashes of my dear Mausolus. It seems to me that I give them a<br>
new life by placing them in this way, and it also seems to me that they communicate to me this chilling<br>
mortality that I feel. And it is only fair that Mausolus, having always been in my heart while he<br>
was alive, should be there even after his death. If I had placed his ashes in this golden urn fully<br>
covered with jewels, perhaps with time, some unjust conqueror would come<br>
open his tomb, take away the urn, scatter the ashes to the wind and separate the<br>
mine from those of Mausolus. But with the way I proceed, we will be inseparable.<br>
No tyrant can disturb my peace, for none exists capable of pushing me away from my<br>
cherished lord. This, Isocrates, is what you ought to say, this, Theopompus, is what I wish that<br>
<hr>
<hr>
                                                   10<hr>