for want of a servant-maid’s sacrifice, nor have it said by any of the dead that stand beside Persephone that the Danaids have left the plains of Troy without gratitude for their companions who died for Hellas. Odysseus will be here in an instant, to drag the tender maiden from your breast and tear her from your aged arms. Go to the temples, go to the altars,at Agamemnon’s knees sit as a suppliant! Invoke the gods, both those in heaven and those beneath the earth. For either your prayers will avail to spare you the loss of your unhappy child,or you must see your daughter fall before the tomb, her crimson blood spurting in deep dark jets from her neck encircled with gold.

HecubaWoe, woe is me! What words,or cries, or lamentations can I utter? Ah me! for the sorrows of my closing years! for slavery too cruel to endure, to bear! Woe, woe is me! What champion do I have? Family,and city—where are they? Aged Priam is no more; no more my children now. Which way am I to go, either this or that? Where shall I turn my steps? Where is any god or divine power to come to my aid?Ah, Trojan maids! bringers of evil tidings! Messengers of woe! you have made an end, an utter end of me; life on earth has no more charm for me. Oh! luckless steps, lead on,guide your aged mistress here to the tent. My child, daughter of a most wretched woman, come forth; listen to your mother’s voice.so that you may know the hideous rumor I now hear about your life, my child.