Rend, rend thy hair, Cassandra: he will go.
Yea, rend thy garments, wring thy hands, and cry
From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky.
See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe: -
He most whom that fair woman arms, with show
Of wrath on her bent brows; for in this place
This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face
The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know.