Antenor's spouse is object of desire,
And e'en thy hand, Cassandra, hath its suitor:
My lot alone they deprecate and fear.
And can ye cease your plaints? O captive throng,
Come beat upon your breasts, and let the sound
Of your loud lamentations rise anew,
The while we celebrate in fitting wise
Troy's funeral; let fatal Ida, seat65
Of that ill-omened judgment, straight resound
With echoes of our pitiful refrain.