Ah, strangers!I cry not ah — as bird at bush — through terrorIdly! to me, the dead this much bear witness:When, for me — woman, there shall die a woman,And, for a man ill-wived, a man shall perish!This hospitality I ask as dying.CHOROS.O sufferer, thee — thy foretold fate I pity.KASSANDRA.Yet once for all, to speak a speech, I fain am:No dirge, mine for myself! The sun I pray to,Fronting his last light! — to my own avengers —That from my hateful slayers they exact tooPay for the dead slave — easy-managed hand’s work! CHOROS.Alas for mortal matters! Happy-fortuned, —Why, any shade would turn them: if unhappy,By throws the wetting sponge has spoiled the picture!And more by much in mortals this I pity.The being well-to-do —Insatiate a desire of thisBorn with all mortals is,Nor any is there who