By any oracles
To mortal men? These arts,
In days of evil sore, with many words,
Do still but bring a vague, portentous fear
For men to learn and know.
Strophe VII
Cass. Woe, woe! for all sore ills that fall on me!
It is my grief thou speak'st of, blending it
With his.[[361]] [Pausing, and then crying out.]
Ah! wherefore then