The Chorus of Old Men of Thebes enters.
Chorus
To the sheltering roof, to the old man's couch, leaning on my staff have I set forth,
[110]
chanting a plaintive dirge like some bird grown grey, I that am only a voice and a fancy bred of the visions of sleep by night, palsied with age, yet meaning kindly. All hail! you orphaned children!
[115]
all hail, old friend! you too, unhappy mother, wailing for your husband in the halls of Hades!