And fill your hands; 'tis right to take
Her dust at least from fallen Troy.
Now let the long-pent grief leap forth,95
And surpass your accustomed bounds of woe.
Oh, weep for Hector, wail and weep.
Chorus: Our hair, in many a funeral torn,100
We loose; and o'er our streaming locks
Troy's glowing ashes lie bestrewn.
From our shoulders the veiling garments fall,105
And our breasts invite the smiting hands.