Your sorrows drive you frantic, poor lady. Go, lead her away, make no delay, for you must deliver her into the hand of Odysseus, conveying to him his prize.

HecubaWoe! oh woe! Son of Cronos, prince of Phrygia, father of our race, do you behold our sufferings now, unworthy of the stock of Dardanus?ChorusHe sees them, but our mighty city is a city no more, and Troy’s day is done.HecubaWoe! oh woe! Ilium is ablaze; the homes of Pergamos and its towering walls are now one sheet of flame.ChorusAs the smoke soars on wings to heaven, so sinks our city to the ground before the spear.