ATT. She whom thou mentionedst, lives; but thou dost not weep for him who is dead; but behold this corse cast naked [on the shore,] and look if it will appear to thee a wonder, and what thou little expectest.
HEC. Alas me! I do indeed see my son Polydore a corse, whom (I fondly hoped) the man of Thrace was preserving in his palace. Now am I lost indeed, I no longer exist. Oh my child, my child! Alas! I begin the Bacchic strain, having lately learned my woes from my evil genius.
ATT. Thou knowest then the calamity of thy son, O most unfortunate.
HEC. I see incredible evils, still fresh, still fresh: and my immeasurable woes follow one upon the other. No longer will a day without a tear, without a groan, have part with me.
CHOR. Dreadful, oh! dreadful are the miseries that we endure!
HEC. O child, child of a wretched mother, by what fate art thou dead, by what hap liest thou here? by the hand of what man?
ATT. I know not: on the wave-washed shore I found him.
HEC. Cast up from the sea, or fallen by the blood-stained spear? (Note [C].)
ATT. The ocean's billow cast him up from the deep on the smooth sand.
HEC. Woe is me! Now understand I the dream, the vision of mine eyes; the black-winged phantom has not flitted by me in vain, which I saw concerning thee, my child, as being no longer in the light of day.