Note 76 — Chapter XVI · THE FRAGMENTS OF THE LOST TRAGIC POETS.

Well, well; what wilt thou do, my soul? Think much Before this sin be sinned, before thy dearest Thou turn to deadliest foes. Whither art bounding? Restrain thy force, thy god-detested fury. And yet why grieve I thus, seeing my life Laid desolate, despitefully abandoned By those who least should leave me? Soft, forsooth, Shall I be in the midst of wrongs like these? Nay, heart of mine, be not thy own betrayer! Ah me! 'Tis settled. Children, from my sight Get you away! for now bloodthirsty madness Sinks in my soul and swells it. Oh, hands, hands, Unto what deed are we accoutred? Woe! Undone by my own daring! In one minute I go to blast the fruit of my long toil.