The Priest: With sorrow and woe
His soul is full of sighing,
Tears he sheds, he pours out laments.
II
O mother of the gods, who performest the commands of Bel,
Who makest the young grass sprout, queen of mankind,
Creator of all, guide of every birth,
Mother Ishtar, whose might no god approaches,
Exalted mistress, mighty in command!
A prayer I will utter, let her do what seems her good.
O my lady, make me to know my doing,
Food I have not eaten, weeping was my nourishment,