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Tell me, what end of troubles awaits him.

Death, death; what else? For he has no desire for food.

[190] Then his destiny is already clear.

Phoebus offered us up for sacrifice, when he ordered the pitiable, unnatural murder of our mother, who killed our father.

It was just.

But it was not well done. [195] You killed and were killed, my mother! and you have slain a father and your own children; [200] for we are dead or as good as dead. You are in your grave, and the greater part of my life is spent in weeping and wailing, [205] and tears at night; unmarried, childless, I drag out forever a joyless existence.

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