Ægyptus. Now, O king, our ancient race
Thou knowest. Us from our prostration raising,
Thou raisest Argos.
King.
Argives in sooth ye seem,
By old descent participant of the soil;
But by what stroke of sore mischance harsh-smitten,
Dared ye to wander from your native seats?
Chorus.
Pelasgian prince, a motley-threaded web