Ah, Procne, wherefore dost thou weary me?


    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 ?