From her unhappy breast
Keeps moaning Itus, Itus, and his life
With evils, flourishing on each side, rife.
Kas. Ah me, ah me,
The fate o' the nightingale, the clear resounder!
For a body wing-borne have the gods cast round her,
And sweet existence, from misfortunes free:
But for myself remains a sundering
With spear, the two-edged thing!
Cho. Whence hast thou this on-rushing god-involving pain