“Tell me, ye gales, ye rising gales,
That lightly sweep along the azure plain,
Whose soft breath fills the swelling sails,
And wafts the vessel dancing o'er the main;
Whither, ah! whither will ye bear
This sickening daughter of despair?
What proud lord’s rigour shall the _slave_ deplore,
On Doric or on Phthian shore?”
495.——αὕτη δὲ _δούλη_, γραῦς, ἄπαις, ἐπὶ χθονι κεῖται, κόνει φύρουσα
δύστηνον κάρα.