And I will weave them for you on the bank.
You will not look so pale when you have walked
A little in the grove, and have told all
Those sweet fond words the widow sent her child.
Aga. Oh Earth! I suffered less upon thy shores!
(Aside)
The bath that bubbled with my blood, the blows
That spilt it (O worse torture) must she know?
Ah! the first woman coming from Mycenai
Will pine to pour this poison in her ear,