The ashes of his clay. Thus Strophius spake:
And if ye are the friends, whom chiefly grief
Pricks for his loss, my mission’s done; at least
His parents will be grieved to hear ’t.
Electra.[n53]
Woe’s me!
Sheer down we topple from proud height; harsh fate
Is ours to wrestle with. O jealous Curse,
How dost thou eye us fatal from afar,
And with thy well-trimmed bow shoot chiefly there