My groans preferring to thy mother's tear;
Convey her here, if, in thy pious heart,
Thy mother shares not an unequal part:
Proceed, be bold, thy father's fate bemoan,
Nations will join, you will not weep alone.
O what a sight is this same briny source,
Unknown before, through all my labours' course!
That virtue, which could brave each toil but late,
With woman's weakness now bewails its fate.
Approach, my son; behold thy father laid,