This text is part of:
Table of Contents:
What affliction on earth surpasses this? What calls for keener grief or pity, than to shed with your hand a mother's blood? Oh! what a dreadful crime he committed,  and now is raving mad, a prey to the Furies, whirling blood with racing eyes, the son of Agamemnon! O the wretch! when  he saw a mother's bosom over her robe of golden weave, and yet he made her his victim, in recompense for his father's sufferings.