By the maiden thy delight,
By the indissoluble zone
And the sacred hair.


MESSENGER.

Maidens, if ye will sing now, shift your song,
Bow down, cry, wail for pity; is this a time
For singing? nay, for strewing of dust and ash,
Rent raiment, and for bruising of the breast.


CHORUS.

What new thing wolf-like lurks behind thy words?
What snake's tongue in thy lips? what fire in the eyes?


MESSENGER.

Bring me before the queen and I will speak.


CHORUS.

Lo, she comes forth as from thank-offering made.


MESSENGER.