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Polymestor rushes out. Blood is streaming from his eyes.
Woe is me! where can I go, where halt, or turn? shall I crawl like a wild four-footed beast on their track, as my reward? Which path shall I take first,  this or that, eager as I am to clutch those Trojan murderesses that have destroyed me? You wretched, cursed daughters  of Phrygia! to what corner have you fled cowering before me? O sun-god, would you could heal, could heal my bleeding eyes, ridding me of my blindness! Ha!  hush! I catch the stealthy footsteps of the women here. Where can I dart on them and gorge on their flesh and bones, making for myself a wild beasts' meal, inflicting mutilation  in requital of their outrage on me? Ah, woe is me! where am I rushing, leaving my children unguarded for maenads of hell to mangle, to be murdered and ruthlessly cast forth upon the hills, a feast of blood for dogs?  Where shall I stay or turn my steps, like a ship that lies anchored at sea, gathering close my linen robe and rushing to that chamber of death, to guard my children?