Chorus.
What man deviseth this accursèd deed?
Cassandra.
Widely thy glance hath missed mine oracles.
Chorus.
Ay, for the plotter's scheme to me is dark.
Cassandra.
Yet in Hellenic speech my words are couched.
Chorus.
So too are Pythian chants, yet hard to spell.
Cassandra.
Alas! what fire is this! It seizes me.
Woe! woe! Lykeian god! Apollo! Woe!
The biped lioness, that with the wolf
In absence of the noble lion couched, 1230
Will me, her victim, slaughter, and as one
Poison who mixeth, she my doom will add
To crown her vengeance; whetting 'gainst her lord
The murderous knife, she boasteth to exact
His death, as payment for escorting me.
Why longer wear this scorn-provoking gear,
This wand, these wreaths prophetic round my neck?
Thee I will shatter ere myself am doomed.
Hence to destruction: I will follow soon;
Another, in my place, enrich with woes.
Behold, Apollo's self doth strip me bare 1240
Of the prophetic robe; coldly he gazed,
