Thou say'st that they are drifted to and fro
[*]In far out-floating garments.[[29]]
Mess. E'en so; our bows availed not, but the host
Has perished, conquered by the clash of ships.
Strophe III
Chor. Wail, raise a bitter cry
280
And full of woe, for those who died in fight.
How every way the Gods have wrought out ill,
Ah me! ah me, our army all destroyed.