Without one note from out the sweet-voiced lyre,
Withering the strength of men as with a blast of fire.
Strophe II
Yea, at our birth this lot to us was given,
And from the immortal Ones who dwell in Heaven
We still must hold aloof;
None sits with us at banquets of delight,
Or shares a common roof,
Nor part nor lot have I in garments white;
My choice was made a race to overthrow,