Chorus
Would that, by my mistress' prayers, Helen, Leda's dear child, [440] might happen to leave Troy and come here, where she might die, crowned over her hair by the bloody water, [445] her throat cut by the hands of my mistress, and so pay her requital. But what a sweet message I should receive, if a sailor came from Hellas, [450] to put an end to my wretched slavery! For may I even in dreams be at home and in my ancestral city, the enjoyment of pleasant sleep, [455] a grace we have in common with prosperity.