Who knoweth his case, and will not melt in tears?
His guiltless blood shall trickle down anon.
Then the Muses sing.
Alas, what hap hast thou, poor Pithias, now to die!
Woe worth the man which for his death hath given us cause to cry.
Eubulus. Methink I hear, with yellow rented hairs,
The Muses frame their notes, my state to moan:[136]
Among which sort, as one that mourneth with heart,
In doleful times myself will bear a part.
Muses. Woe worth the man which for his death, &c.