Stasimon 6
CHOROS.
I fear the bloody crash of the rain
That ruins the roof as it bursts amain:
Destiny doth Justice whet
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For other deed of hurt, on other whetstones yet.
Woe, earth, earth — would thou hadst taken me
Of the silver-sided bath-vase, dead!
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Who is it shall bury him, who
Sing his dirge? Can it be true
That thou wilt dare this same to do —
Having slain thy husband, thine own,
To make his funeral moan:
And for the soul of him, in place
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Of his mighty deeds, a graceless grace
To wickedly institute? By whom
Shall the tale of praise o’er the tomb
At the god-like man be sent —
