For, things that terrify,With changing unintelligible cryThou strikest up in tune, yet all the whileAfter 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 draughtPaternal! There once, to these ends,On thy banks was I brought,The unhappy! And now, by Kokutos and Acheron’s shoreI 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-wreakingOf thee shrill shrieking:To me who hear — a wonder! KASSANDRA.Ah me, the toils — the toils of the cityThe wholly destroyed: ah, pity,Of the sacrificings my father madeIn the ramparts’ aid —Much slaughter of grass-fed flocks — that afforded no cureThat 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,