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Iphis departs. A procession enters from the direction of the pyre, led by the children of the slain chieftains, who carry the ashes of their fathers in funeral urns. The following lines between the Chorus and the children are chanted responsively.
Woe, woe! Behold our dead sons'  bones are brought here; take them, servants, from your weak old mistress, for I have no strength left from mourning for my sons; time's comrade long have I been, and many a tear for many a sorrow have I shed.  For what greater pang could you ever find for mortals than the sight of children dead?