_ All joy is mine: I shrink from death no more.
_Chor._ Did love for this thy fatherland so try thee?
_Her._ So that mine eyes weep tears for very joy.
_Chor._ Disease full sweet then this ye suffered from . . .
_Her._ How so? When taught, I shall thy meaning master.
_Chor._ Ye longed for us who yearned for you in turn.
_Her._ Say'st thou this land its yearning host yearned o'er?
_Chor._ Yea, so that oft I groaned in gloom of heart.
_Her._ Whence came these bodings that an army hates?
_Chor._ Silence I've held long since a charm for ill.
_Her._ How, when your lords were absent, feared ye any?
_Chor._ To use thy words, death now would welcome be. {533}
The Herald, not understanding the source of the Chorus' misgiving, goes
on to say of course their success is mixed: so fare all but the Gods.
They have had their tossings on the sea, their exposure to the night dews
till their hair is shaggy as beasts'; but why remember these now? our
toil is past--so he suddenly recollects is that of the dead they have
left behind--but he will shake off these feelings: Troy is captured.
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