Above the bush I cry. Yourselves shall know it
Then when, for me a woman, a woman dies,
And for a man ill-wived a man shall fall
Trust me in this. Your honest faith is all
The Trojan guest, the dying woman, craves.
Chorus.
O wretched maid! O luckless prophetess!
Cassandra.
Yet will I speak one other word, before
I leave this light. Hear thou my vows, bright sun,