_Chor._ Frenzied art thou, and by some God's might swayed, 1110
And utterest for thyself
A melody which is no melody,
Like to that tawny one,
Insatiate in her wail,
The nightingale, who still with sorrowing soul,
And “Itys, Itys,” cry,[363]
Bemoans a life o'erflourishing in ills.