Thyself didst say, woe there prevaileth.
But for this tide enough hath been
Of bloody work. My score is clean.
Now to the ancient stern Alastor,
That crowns the Pleisthenids[f31] with disaster,
I vow, having reaped his crop of woe
From me, to others let him go,
And hold with them his bloody bridal,
Of horrid murders suicidal!
Myself, my little store amassed