CHOR. Most doleful sound!
HEC. To servile roofs.
CHOR. From my dear native land.
HEC. Slain, uninterred, abandoned by thy friends,
Thou sure, O Priam, know’st not what I suffer.
For sable death hath closed thine eyes for ever;
Though pious, thou by impious hands wert murdered.
O ye polluted temples of the gods,
And thou my dearest city.
CHOR. Ye, alas!
Are by the deadly flame and pointed spear
Now occupied, on this beloved soil
Soon shall you lie a heap of nameless ruins:
For dust, which mixed with smoke, to Heaven ascends,
No longer will permit me to discern
Where erst my habitation stood: the land
Loses its very name, and each memorial
Of pristine grandeur; wretched Troy’s no more.
HEC. Ye know the fatal truth, ye heard the crash
Of falling towers. Our city to its basis
Is shaken. O ye trembling, trembling limbs,
Support my steps!
TAL. Depart to end thy days
In servitude. Alas! thou wretched city!
Yet to the navy of the Greeks proceed.