[To Hyllus.]
This woe, my son, is of thy mother's gift.
Oh, that I might crush out her guilty life
With my great club, as once the Amazons1450
I smote upon the snowy Caucasus.
O well-loved Megara, to think that thou
Wast wife of mine when in that fit I fell
Of maddened rage! Give me my club and bow;
Let my hand be disgraced, and with a blot
Let me destroy the luster of my praise—