Over your shoulders bent with grief,
The while with Troy's slow-cooling dust85
Ye sprinkle them. Lay bare your arms,
Strip from your breasts their covering;
Why veil your beauty? Shame itself90
Is held in captive bonds. And now
Let your hands wave free to the quickening blows
That resound to your wailings. So, now are ye ready,
And thus it is well. I behold once more
My old-time Trojan band. Now stoop