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The Chorus of Old Men of Thebes enters.
To the sheltering roof, to the old man's couch, leaning on my staff have I set forth,  chanting a plaintive dirge like some bird grown grey, I that am only a voice and a fancy bred of the visions of sleep by night, palsied with age, yet meaning kindly. All hail! you orphaned children!  all hail, old friend! you too, unhappy mother, wailing for your husband in the halls of Hades!