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Chorus That murder wrought by the daughters of Danaus, which the rock of Argos keeps, was once the most famous and notorious in Hellas; but this has surpassed, has outrun those former horrors . . . for the unhappy son of Zeus. I could tell of the murder done by Procne, mother of an only child, offered to the Muses; but you had three children, wretched parent, and all of them have you in your frenzy slain. Alas! What groans or wails, what funeral dirge, or dance of death am I to raise? Ah, ah! see, the bolted doors of the lofty palace are being rolled apart. Ah me! see the wretched children lying before their unhappy father, who is sunk in dreadful slumber after shedding their blood. Round him are bonds and cords, made fast with many knots about the body of Heracles, and lashed to the stone columns of his house.