And if some augur of the land be near,
Hearing our piteous cry,
Sure he will deem he hears
The voice of Tereus' bride,[[214]]
Piteous and sad of soul,
The nightingale sore harassed by the kite.
60
Antistrophe II
[*]For she, driven back from wonted haunts and streams,[[215]]
Mourns with a strange new plaint