Ah, Procne, wherefore dost thou weary me?

X

Τί με Πανδίονις ὧ ῎ραννα χελίδων·

AH, Procne, wherefore dost thou weary me ? 
Thus flitting out and flitting in, 
Thou show'st the restlessness of one love-slighted : 
And yet, Pandion's daughter, thou did'st win 
Thy Tereus. Though he loved too well 
     Dumb Philomel, 
Tease not the air with this tumultuous wing ! 
Hast thou no passion for unbosoming ? 
     Such misery 
Befits the breast that love hath ne'er delighted ; 
Thou to thy Thracian boy wert once united. . . 
Ah, lovely Procne, wherefore weary me ?