All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense,
More lifeless than the dying victim, see
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet,
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight
Of his Alcestis.
Alc. O my handmaids! still
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs
When death’s last pang is o’er.