STROPHE VII.
Cassandra.
Fill the cup, and brim the woe!
’Tis my own heart’s blood must flow.
Me! miserable me!
From old Troy why didst thou bring me,
Poor captive maid, to sing thee
Thy dirge, and die with thee?
STROPHE VIII.
Chorus.
By a god thou art possessed,
And he raveth in thy breast,