Not yet I understand: through riddles dark
And cloudy oracles my wits are wandering.
STROPHE V.
Cassandra.
Ha! what bloody sight is this!
’Tis a net of Hades spread—
’Tis a snare to snare her lord,
The fond sharer of her bed.
The black chorus of the place[f24]
Shout for vengeance o’er the race,
Whose offence cries for atoning,