With that abhorréd beast! She shall be wroth
With him that carries her, when, at our gates,
The too industrious hammerstoke of war
Her bulging blazon dints with rude reverse!
Nevertheless, I leave it to the Gods!
And may they prove that I speak verity!
Chorus.
This rives my heart! Ruffles my braided locks
Until each hair with horror stands up stiff!
Blasphemy of unholy men that mocks
Things holy! O ye Gods—if—if
Ye be indeed Gods that requite,
Smite them! with ruin smite!
Messenger.
I am near ended. Sixth there came a man
In temper most majestical, in might
Excelling all—the prophet, Amphiaraus.
Before the Homoloean Gates he stood
Chiding great Tydeus with much eloquence.
'Assassin! Troubler of the public peace!
In Argos arch-preceptor of all wrong!
Erinys' call-boy! Slaughter's acolyte!
Organ of evil counsel to the soul
Of old Adrastus'! Then he called aloud
The name of Polyneices—thy blood-brother,—
And lifting up his eyes to Heaven, paused—
An awful pause—on that last syllable
That speaks of strife. And thus his thoughts break loose:
'Doubtless, this is a deed to please the Gods,—
