Hope rose up to the lip-edge: filled it was not.By smoke the captured city is still conspicuous:Até’s burnt offerings live: and, dying with them,The ash sends forth the fulsome blasts of riches.Of these things, to the gods grace many-mindful’T is right I render, since both nets outrageousWe built them round with, and, for sake of woman,It did the city to dust — the Argeian monster,