Well-a-day, woe’s me!
Thus I grace my own tomb with the wail pouring free,
Thus I sing my own dirge, ah me![f9]
Ye Apian hills, be kind to me,
And throw not back the stranger’s note,
But know the Libyan wail.
Behold how, rent to sorrow’s note,
My linen robes all loosely float,
And my Sidonian veil.
ANTISTROPHE VI.