With many sorrows. By my hand
Falling he fell, and dying died.[n95]
I too will bury him; but no train
Of mourning men for him shall plain
In our Argive streets; but rather
In the land of sunless cheer
She shall be his convoy; she,
Iphigenía, his daughter dear.
By the stream of woes[f30] swift-flowing,
Round his neck her white arms throwing,