And, as he still enquired, and called aloud;
Fierce Philomela, all besmeared with blood,
Her hand with murder stained, her spreading hair
Hanging dishevelled, with a ghastly air,
Stepped forth, and flung full in the tyrant's face
The head of Itys, gory as it was:
Nor ever longed so much to use her tongue,
And, with a just reproach, to vindicate her wrong.
The Thracian monarch from the table flings
While with his cries the vaulted parlour rings;