O sorely-vexing god,
How hast thou trampled ’neath no gentle foot
The Persian race!
Atossa.
Woe’s me! the army’s lost.
O dreamy shapes night wandering, too clearly
Your prophecy spoke truth! But you, good Seniors,
Sorry expounders though ye be, in one thing
I will obey. I will go pray the gods,
As ye advised; then gifts I will present