How? ’Tis the scent of festal sacrifice.
Cassandra.
The scent of death—a fragrance from the grave.
Chorus.
Soothly no breath of Syrian nard she names.
Cassandra.
But now the time is come. I go within
To wail for Agamemnon and myself.
I’ve done with life. Farewell! My vouchers ye,
Not with vain screaming, like a fluttering bird,[n83]