That fatteneth the flesh of Egypt's kine,
And breeds a procreant humour in man's blood
Even as sap clothes the bare bough with green.
Argive I am of long descended line,
Queen, and the daughter of a Queen.
Herald.
Rant—rail your fill,
But whether ye will not or ye will
Ye must aboard!
Chorus.
Alack! Why tarry they?
Make speed, or we are lost!
Herald.
If ye delay,
From where ye sit I'll drag ye with these hands.
Chorus.
O'er ocean-lawns sheeted with salt sea-spume
May ye be dragged and driven to and fro,
With helpless tossings of those cruel hands,
Where from the Syrian coast the wild winds blow
With wailing heard along the mounded sands
Beneath Sarpedon's tomb.
Herald.
Shriek, wail and howl and call upon the Gods.
'Tis not so light a thing to overleap.
A ship of Egypt. Wherefore tune thy voice
To sadder music, a more bitter curse.
