Ye wretches, curse on you.
Strophe I
Chor. Would thou had'st met thy death
Where the salt waves wildly surge,
Thou with thy lordly pride,
In nail-compacted ship:
[*]Lo! they will smite thee, weltering in thy blood,
[*]And drive thee to thy barque.
Her. I bid you cease perforce, the cravings wild
Of mind to madness given.