_Chor._ Would thou had'st met thy death
Where the salt waves wildly surge,
Thou with thy lordly pride,
In nail-compacted ship:
*Lo! they will smite thee, weltering in thy blood,
*And drive thee to thy barque.
_Her._ I bid you cease perforce, the cravings wild
Of mind to madness given.
Ho there! what ho! I say; 830
Give up those seats, and hasten to the ship:
I reverence not what this State honoureth.