ATT. I bring this grief to Hecuba; but in calamity 'tis no easy thing for
men to speak words of good import.

CHOR. And see, she is coming out of the house, and appears in the right
time for thy words.

ATT. O all-wretched mistress, and yet still more wretched than I can
express in words, thou art undone, and no longer beholdest the light,
childless, husbandless, cityless, entirely destroyed.

HEC. Thou has said nothing new, but hast reproached me who already know it:
but why dost thou bring this corse of my Polyxena, whose sepulture was
reported to me as in a state of active progress through the labors of all
the Grecians?

ATT. She nothing knows, but, woe's me! laments Polyxena, nor does she
apprehend her new misfortunes.

HEC. O wretched me! dost bring hither the body of the frantic and inspired
Cassandra?

ATT. She whom thou mentionedst, lives; but thou dost not weep for him who
is dead; but behold this corse cast naked [on the shore,] and look if it
will appear to thee a wonder, and what thou little expectest.

HEC. Alas me! I do indeed see my son Polydore a corse, whom (_I fondly
hoped_) the man of Thrace was preserving in his palace. Now am I lost
indeed, I no longer exist. Oh my child, my child! Alas! I begin the Bacchic
strain, having lately learned my woes from my evil genius.