“Tears, unavailing, but defer our time, The stabbing sword must expiate the crime; Or worse, if wit, on bloody vengeance bent, A weapon more tormenting can invent. O sister! I’ve prepared my stubborn heart To act some hellish and unheard-of part; Either the palace to surround with fire, And see the villain in the flames expire, Or, with a knife, dig out his cursed eyes, Or his false tongue with racking engines seize. Tortures enough my passion has design’d, But the variety distracts my mind.”

Awhile thus wav’ring stood the furious dame, When Itys fondling to his mother came; From him the cruel, fatal hint she took, She view’d him with a stern, remorseless look; “Ah! but too like thy wicked sire,” she said, Forming the direful purpose in her head. At this a sullen grief her voice suppress’d, While silent passions struggle in her breast.