H. No groom, no guardian of thy sculptured shrine.
A. 'Twas Kupris, the arch-fiend, who wrought this woe.
H. Ah, me! Now know I what god made me die.
A. Shorn of her honor, vexed with thy chaste life.
H. Three of us her one spite—behold! hath slain.
A. Thy father, and his wife, and thirdly thee.
H. Yea, and I therefore mourn my sire's ill hap.
A. Snared was he by a goddess's deceit.
H. Oh! for your sorrow in this woe, my father!
T. Son! I have perished: life has now no joy.