150
Smote me, as charioteer
Smites with a goad he in the middle grasps,
Beneath my breast, my heart;
'Tis ours to feel the keen, the o'er keen smart,
As by the public scourger fiercely lashed.
Antistrophe II
Such are the doings of these younger Gods,
Beyond all bounds of right
Stretching their power.... A clot of blood besmeared