Eubulus. With yellow rented hairs, come on, you Muses nine;
Fill now my breast with heavy tunes, to me your plaint resign:
For Pithias I bewail, which presently must die,
Woe worth the man which for his death hath given us cause, &c.
Muses. Woe worth the man which for his, &c.
Eubulus. Was ever such a man, that would die for his friend?
I think even from the heavens above the gods did him down send
To show true friendship’s power, which forc’d thee now to die.
Woe worth the man which for thy death, &c.
Muses. Woe worth the man, &c.