_Semi-Chor. A._ Yea, through the city runs
A wailing cry. The high towers wail aloud;
Wails all the plain that loves her heroes well;
And to their children's sons
The wealth will go for which
The strife of those ill-starred ones brought forth death.
_Semi-Chor. B._ Quick to resent, they shared their fortune so,
That each like portion won;
*Nor can their friends regard
Their umpire without blame; 900
Nor is our voice in thanks to Ares raised.