Keeps moaning Itus, Itus, and his lifeWith 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 sunderingWith spear, the two-edged thing!CHOROS.Whence hast thou this on-rushing god-involving painAnd spasms in vain?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?