Unfold the perfect volume of our woes,
And, though the memory grieve thee, let us hear
Thy tale to the end; what loss demands our tears,
Which of the baton-bearing chiefs[f21] hath left
An army to march home without a head.
Messenger.
Xerxes yet lives, and looks on the light.
Atossa.
Much light
In this to me, and to my house thou speakest,