Chorus
Let me call on you, beneath leafy haunts, sitting in your place of song, you, the most sweetly singing bird, [1110] tearful nightingale, oh, come, trilling through your tawny throat, to aid me in my lament, as I sing the piteous woes of Helen and [1115] the tearful fate of Trojan women under the Achaeans' spears; when he sped over the surging plains with foreign oar, when he came, came bringing to Priam's race from Lacedaemon [1120] you, Helen, his unhappy bride—Paris, fatally wedded, under the guidance of Aphrodite.