Cho. Smite, oh smite upon thy head with frequent blow of hand. Woe is me!
Hec. My kind, good friends!
Cho. Speak out,[1] Hecuba, the word that was on thy lips.
Hec. It seems the only things that heaven concerns itself about are my troubles and Troy hateful in their eyes above all other cities. In vain did we sacrifice to them. Had not[2] the god caught us in his grip and plunged us headlong 'neath the earth, we should have been unheard of, nor ever sung in Muses' songs, furnishing to bards of after-days a subject for their minstrelsy. Go, bury now in his poor tomb the dead, wreathed all duly as befits a corpse. And yet I deem it makes but little difference to the dead, although they get a gorgeous funeral; for this is but a cause of idle pride to the living.
Cho. Alas! for thy unhappy mother, who o'er[3] thy corpse hath closed the high hopes of her life! Born of a noble stock, counted most happy in thy lot, ah! what a tragic death is thine! Ha! who are those I see on yonder pinnacles darting to and fro with flaming torches in their hands? Some new calamity will soon on Troy alight.
Tal. Ye captains, whose allotted task it is to fire this town of Priam, to you I speak. No longer keep the fire-brand idle in your hands, but launch the flame, that when we have destroyed the city of Ilium we may set forth in gladness on our homeward voyage from Troy. And you, ye sons of Troy,—to let my orders take at once a double form—start for the Achæan ships for your departure hence, soon as ever the leaders of the host blow loud and clear upon the
