Helen: Woe for this heavy day! Ah me! what mournful tidings shall
hear?
Chorus: Dear mistress mine, be not a prophetess of sorrow, forestalling
lamentation.
Helen: What is the fate of my poor husband? Doth he still behold the
light turning towards the sun-god's chariot and the stars in their
courses? Or among the dead, beneath the earth, is he to death consigned?
Chorus: Of the future take a brighter view, whatever shall betide.
Helen: On thee I call, and thee adjure, Eurotas green with river-reeds,
to tell me if this rumour of my husband's death be true.
Chorus: What boots this meaningless appeal?
Helen: About my neck will I fasten the deadly noose from above, or
drive the murderous knife with self-aimed thrust deep into my throat
to sever it, striving to cut my flesh, a sacrifice to those goddesses
three and to that son of Priam, who in days gone by would wake the
music of his pipe around his steading.
Studies
