Of the craft-killing cauldron I tell thee the case! CHOROS. I would not boast to be a topping critic 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.
 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! What else was sought? CHOROS. Thou art some mind-mazed creature, god-possessed: And all about thyself dost wail A lay — no lay! Like some brown nightingale Insatiable of noise, who — well-away! — From her unhappy breast Keeps moaning Itus, Itus, and his life With evils, flourishing on each side, rife.
 KASSANDRA. Ah me, ah me, The fate o’ the nightingale, the clear resounder! For a body wing-borne have the gods cast round her, And sweet existence, from misfortunes free: But for myself remains a sundering With spear, the two-edged thing! CHOROS. Whence hast thou this on-rushing god-involving pain And spasms in vain?