And he was happiest who the soonest died.
We who survived, a miserable wreck,
Struggled through Thrace slowly with much hard toil,[n18]
And stand again on Persian ground, and see
Our native hearths. Much cause the city has
To weep the loss of her selectest youth.
These words are true: much I omit to tell
Of all the woes a god hath smote withal
Our Persian land.
Chorus.