_Chor._ Sent from the house I come,
With quick, sharp beatings of the hands in grief,
To pour libations here;
*And see, my cheeks with bloody marks are tracked,[403]
The new-cut furrows which my nails have made,
And evermore my heart is fed with groans;
And folds of mantles tied
Across the breast are rent
To shreds and rags in grief,
*Marring the grace of linen vestments fair,
*Since we by woes that shut out smiles are smitten. 30