"If I've offended, let these streaming eyes,
"And let this sev'nfold funeral suffice:
"Ah! take this wretched life you deign'd to save,
"With them I too am carried to the grave.
"But show the cause from whence your triumphs flow?
"Tho' I unhappy mourn these children slain,
"Yet greater numbers to my lot remain."
She ceas'd, the bow firing twang'd with awful sound,
Which struck with terror all th' assembly round
Except the queen, who stood unmov'd alone,
By her distresses more presumptuous grown.
Near the pale corses flood their sisters fair
In fable vestures and disheveled hair;
Faints, falls, and sickens at the light of day.
To sooth her mother, lo! another flies,
And blames the fury of inclement skies,
And, while her words a filial pity show,
