Nay then, believe me not: what skills belief
Or disbelief? Fate works its will—and thou
Wilt see and say in ruth Her tale was true.
Chorus.
Ah—'tis Thyestes' feast on kindred flesh—
I guess her meaning and with horror thrill,
Hearing no shadow'd hint of th' o'er-true tale,
But its full hate fulness: yet, for the rest,
Far from the track I roam, and know no more.
Cassandra.
'Tis Agamemnon's doom thou shalt behold.
Chorus.
Peace, hapless woman, to thy boding words.
Cassandra.
Far from my speech stands he who sains and saves.
Chorus.
Ay—were such doom at hand—which God forbid!
Cassandra.
Thou prayest idly—these move swift to slay.
Chorus.
What man prepares a deed of such despite?
Cassandra.
Fool! thus to read amiss mine oracles.
Chorus.
Deviser and device are dark to me.
Cassandra.
Dark! all too well I speak the Grecian tongue.
