Chorus
You are fools, who try to win a reputation for virtue through war and marshalled lines of spears, senselessly putting an end to mortal troubles; [1155] for if a bloody quarrel is to decide it, strife will never leave off in the towns of men; by it they won as their lot bed-chambers of Priam's earth, when they could have set right by discussion [1160] the strife over you, O Helen. And now they are below in Hades' keeping, and fire has darted onto the walls like the bolt of Zeus, and you are bringing woe on woe . . . .