_Chor._ Ah me! ah me!
Would thou may'st perish with no hand to help,
Crossing the sea's wide plain,
In wanderings far and wide,
Where Sarpedonian sand-bank[261] spreads its length,
Driven by the sweeping blasts!
_Her._ Sob thou, and howl, and call upon the Gods: 850
Thou shalt not 'scape that barque from Ægypt come,
Though thou should'st pour a bitterer strain of grief.