SEMICHOR. O Hecuba, what mean these clamorous notes,
These shrieks of woe? for from the vaulted roof
Thy plaints re-echoing smite my distant ear,
And fresh alarms seize every Phrygian dame
Who in these tents enslaved deplores her fate.
HEC. E’en now, my daughter, at the Grecian fleet
Th’ exulting sailors ply their oars.
SEMICHOR. Ah me!
What mean they? will they instantly convey me
Far from my ruined country?
HEC. By conjecture
Alone am I acquainted with our doom.
SEMICHOR. Soon shall we hear this sentence: “From these doors
Come forth ye Trojan captives, for the Greeks
Are now preparing to return.”
HEC. O cease,
My friends, nor from her chambers hither bring
Cassandra, frantic prophetess, defiled
By Argive ruffians, for the sight of her
Would but increase my griefs.
SEMICHOR. Troy, wretched Troy,
Thou art no more, they to whom fate ordains
No longer on thy fostering soil to dwell
Are wretched, both the living and the slain.