Elect. Yea, on me too there rushed heart-surge of gall
And I was smitten as with dart that pierced;
And from mine eyes there fell the thirsty drops
That pour unchecked, of this full bitter flood,
As I this lock beheld. How can I think
That any other townsman owns this hair?
180
Nay, she who slew ... she did not cut it off,
My mother ... who towards her children shows
A godless mood that little suits the name;