Stasimon 4
[Choral 1]
Gone, gone is every hope I had that the children yet might live; forth to their doom they now proceed. The hapless bride will take, ay, take the golden crown that is to be her ruin;
Chorus
with her own hand will she lift and place upon her golden locks the garniture of death.
980
Its grace and sheen divine will tempt her to put on the robe and crown of gold,
and in that act will she deck herself to be a bride amid the dead. Such is the snare whereinto she will fall, such is the deadly doom that waits the hapless maid, nor shall she from the curse escape.
985
[Choral 2]
And thou, poor wretch, who to thy sorrow art wedding a king’s daughter, little thinkest of the doom thou art bringing on thy children’s life, or of the cruel death that waits thy bride.
990
Chorus
Woe is thee! how art thou fallen from thy high estate!
995
Next do I bewail thy sorrows, O mother hapless in thy children, thou who wilt slay thy babes because thou hast a rival, the babes
thy husband hath deserted impiously to join him to another bride.
1000