I fain would hear, yet will not silence blame.
Clytæm. May Morning, as the proverb runs, appear
Bearing glad tidings from his mother Night![[291]]
Joy thou shalt learn beyond thy hope to hear;
For Argives now have taken Priam's city.
Chor. What? Thy words sound so strange they flit by me.
Clytæm. The Achæans hold Troïa. Speak I clear enough?
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Chor. Joy creeps upon me, drawing forth my tears.
Clytæm. Of loyal heart thine eyes give token true.