_Chor._ Frenzied art thou, and by some God's might swayed, 1110 And utterest for thyself A melody which is no melody, Like to that tawny one, Insatiate in her wail, The nightingale, who still with sorrowing soul, And “Itys, Itys,” cry,[363] Bemoans a life o'erflourishing in ills. ANTISTROPHE VII _Cass._ Ah, for the doom of clear-voiced nightingale! The Gods gave her a body bearing wings, And life of pleasant days With no fresh cause to weep: But for me waiteth still Stroke from the two-edged sword. ANTISTROPHE VIII _Chor._ From what source hast thou these dread agonies Sent on thee by thy God, Yet vague and little meaning; and thy cries 1120 Dire with ill-omened shrieks Dost utter as a chant, And blendest with them strains of shrillest grief? Whence treadest thou this track Of evil-boding path of prophecy? STROPHE IX _Cass._ Woe for the marriage-ties, the marriage-ties Of Paris that brought ruin on his friends! Woe for my native stream, Scamandros, that I loved! Once on thy banks my maiden youth was reared, (Ah, miserable me!) Now by Cokytos and by Acheron's shores I seem too likely soon to utter song Of wild, prophetic speech. STROPHE X _Chor._ What hast thou spoken now With utterance all too clear? *Even a boy its gist might understand; I to the quick am pierced With throe of deadly pain, Whilst thou thy moaning cries art uttering Over thy sore mischance, Wondrous for me to hear. ANTISTROPHE IX _Cass._ Woe for the toil and trouble, toil and trouble Of city that is utterly destroyed! Woe for the victims slain Of herds that roamed the fields, 1140 My father's sacrifice to save his towers! No healing charm they brought To save the city from its present doom: And I with hot thoughts wild myself shall cast Full soon upon the ground. ANTISTROPHE X _Chor._ This that thou utterest now With all before agrees. Some Power above dooms thee with purpose ill, Down-swooping heavily, To utter with thy voice Sorrows of deepest woe, and bringing death. And what the end shall be Perplexes in the extreme.