Is human woe; a wing of dappled plumes.
Past hope and faith it was that we, whose blood
From Argive Io flows, to Io’s city,
In startled flight, should measure back our way,
To escape from hated marriage.
King.
How say’st thou?
To escape from marriage thou art here, displaying
These fresh-cropt branches, snowy-wreathed, before
The Agonian gods?