Stasimon 4
CHOROS.
To my heart has run
A drop of the crocus-dye:
On earth by the spear that lie,
With life’s descending sun.
Swift is the curse begun!
KASSANDRA.
How! How!
1125
Keep the bull from the cow!
1125
In the vesture she catching him, strikes him now
With the black-horned trick,
And he falls in the watery vase!
Of the craft-killing cauldron I tell thee the case!
CHOROS.
I would not boast to be a topping critic
1130
Of oracles: but to some sort of evil
I liken these. From oracles, what good speech
To mortals, beside, is sent?
It comes of their evils: these arts word-abounding that sing the event
Bring the fear’t is their office to teach.
1135
KASSANDRA.
Ah me, ah me —
Of me unhappy, evil-destined fortunes!
For I bewail my proper woe
As, mine with his, all into one I throw.
Why hast thou hither me unhappy brought?
— Unless that I should die with him — for nought!
CHOROS.
Thou art some mind-mazed creature, god-possessed:
1140
And all about thyself dost wail
