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With trembling step, alas! I leave this tent of Agamemnon to learn of you, my royal mistress, whether the Argives have resolved to take my wretched life, or  whether the sailors at the prow are making ready to ply their oars. Hecuba
My child, your wakeful heart! Second Semi-Chorus
I have come, stricken with terror. Has a herald from the Danaids already arrived?  To whom am I, poor captive, given as a slave? Hecuba
You are not far from being allotted now. Second Semi-Chorus
Alas! What man of Argos or Phthia will bear me in sorrow far from Troy, to his home, or to some island fastness? Hecuba
 Ah! ah! Whose slave shall I become in my old age? in what land? a poor old drone, the wretched copy of a corpse, alas! set to keep the gate  or tend their children, I who once held royal rank in Troy.
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