Chorus
Phoebus is singing a dirge, after his happier strains,
[350]
for Linus dead in his beauty, striking his lyre with key of gold; but I wish to sing a song of praise, a crown to all his toil, on the one who has gone to the gloom beneath the nether world,
[355]
whether I am to call him son of Zeus or of Amphitryon. For the virtue of noble toils is a glory to the dead.