Minerva
I check'd him from the savage joy his heart
Conceived, presenting to his eyes wild forms
Of sick imagination; on the herds
I turn'd him, and the undivided spoils
By herdsmen watch'd; on these he rush'd, and spread
Wide slaughter 'midst the horned droves, around
Whirling his sword; th' Atridæ now he ween'd
Fell by his hand, and now some other Chief,
Each after each; his mind with frenzy seized,
I urged him on, and drove him into toils
Thus wretchedly entangled. When his hand
From this wild slaughter ceased, the herds not slain
And all the flocks he seized, in fetters bound,
And drove them to his tent, deeming them men,
Not horned herds: there now with many a lash
He makes his captives feel his frentic rage...
But I will show thee his distemperature,
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To all the Grecians that thou may'st report
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What thou hast seen. Call up thy firmness, stay,
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Of ill not apprehensive; I will turn
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His eyes aside to cast no glance on thee.
Ho there! To thee, who on thy captives' hands
Art fixing chains, to thee I call; come forth;
Ajax. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.