For, things that terrify, With changing unintelligible cry Thou strikest up in tune, yet all the while After that Orthian style! Whence hast thou limits to the oracular road, That evils bode?
 KASSANDRA. Ah me, the nuptials, the nuptials of Paris, the deadly to friends! Ah me, of Skamandros the draught Paternal! There once, to these ends, On thy banks was I brought, The unhappy! And now, by Kokutos and Acheron’s shore I shall soon be, it seems, these my oracles singing once more! CHOROS. Why this word, plain too much, Hast thou uttered? A babe might learn of such! I am struck with a bloody bite — here under — At the fate woe-wreaking Of thee shrill shrieking: To me who hear — a wonder!
 KASSANDRA. Ah me, the toils — the toils of the city The wholly destroyed: ah, pity, Of the sacrificings my father made In the ramparts’ aid — Much slaughter of grass-fed flocks — that afforded no cure That the city should not, as it does now, the burthen endure! But I, with the soul on fire, Soon to the earth shall cast me and expire. CHOROS. To things, on the former consequent, Again hast thou given vent: And ’t is some evil-meaning fiend doth move thee, Heavily falling from above thee,