Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/138

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Yea, beat anew thy breast, ring out the doleful Mysian call!

An agony, an agony!

Pluck out thy whitening beard!

By handfuls, ay, by handfuls, with dismal tear-drops smeared!

Sob out thine aching sorrow!

I will thine hest obey.

With thine hands rend thy mantle's fold—

Alas, woe worth the day!

With thine own fingers tear thy locks, bewail the army's weird!