Heads lopped from necks, eyes from their spheres plucked out,
Hacked flesh, the flower of youthful seed crushed out,
Feet hewn away, and hands, and death beneath
The smiting stone, low moans and piteous
Of men impaled—Hark, hear ye for what feast
Ye hanker ever, and the loathing gods
Do spit upon your craving? Lo, your shape
Is all too fitted to your greed; the cave
Where lurks some lion, lapping gore, were home
More meet for you. Avaunt from sacred shrines,
Nor bring pollution by your touch on all
That nears you. Hence! and roam unshepherded—
No god there is to tend such herd as you.
Chorus.
O king Apollo, in our turn hear us.
Thou hast not only part in these ill things,
But art chief cause and doer of the same.
Apollo.
How? stretch thy speech to tell this, and have done.
Chorus.
Thine oracle bade this man slay his mother.
Apollo.
I bade him quit his sire's death,—wherefore not?
Chorus.
Then didst thou aid and guard red-handed crime.
Apollo.
Yea, and I bade him to this temple flee.
