Then would I ope, though with reluctant hand,
My very veins ere yet the sun had sunk
And wash myself in my own lustral blood.
For lo, the gods all stand with eyes avert
Though with a pity filled; the golden threads
Are snapped—those threads that knit me to the stars
And held me upright. Direly draws the dust
And if I wait and waver my new sister,
The toad, hops cosily into my chamber.
Gyges.