They drive them at each other, and that slaves
Are hounded on them, who for life or death
Must face them in the fight, and they the while
Circled around upon high benches sit
All jubilant when wounds of death are gaping
And when the red blood spurts on sprinkled sand?
Sameas.
Such things the wildest fancy of my dreaming
Ne’er showed me; but it joys my very soul
If such they do. It fits the breed o’ them!