Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/201



Daughter, why weepest thou?

Woe!

Hush! No rash cry!

Thou’lt be my death.

What meanest thou?

If ye would whisper hope

That they we know for dead may be alive;

Ye trample on a bleeding heart.

Nay, I bethink me how

The Argive seer was swallowed up,

Snared by a woman for a golden chain,

And now in the nether world—

Ah me!

A living soul he reigns.

Ah woe!

Aye woe! for the murderess—

Was slain.

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