The nightingale, who still with sorrowing soul,
And “Itys, Itys,” cry,[[363]]
Bemoans a life o'erflourishing in ills.
Antistrophe VII
Cass. Ah, for the doom of clear-voiced nightingale!
The Gods gave her a body bearing wings,
And life of pleasant days
With no fresh cause to weep:
But for me waiteth still
Stroke from the two-edged sword.