Is deaf; she comes from the new-captured city,
Untaught to bear the Argive bit with patience,
But foams and dashes bloody froth. I will not
Make myself base by wasting words on her. [Exit.
Chorus.
Poor maid, I may not blame; I pity thee.
Come, leave thy seat; for, though the yoke be strange,
Necessity compels, and thou must bear it.
STROPHE I.
Cassandra.
Ah! ah! woe’s me! woe! woe!