Can voice the sorrows in thy bosom pent.
Let Cycnus raise his dying song,
And its soft, plaintive strains prolong;
Let Halcyon mourn her Ceyx brave,680
A-flutter o'er the tossing wave;
Let priests of tower-crowned Cybele685
Their tears for Attis share with thee:
Still would our tears in no such measure flow,690
For sufferings like these no limits know.
[Cassandra lays aside her fillets.]