Woe upon thee, Apollo! uncontrolled, Unbidden, hast thou, prophet-god, imbrued The pure prophetic shrine with wrongful blood! For thou too heinous a respect didst hold Of man, too little heed of powers divine! And us the Fates, the ancients of the earth, Didst deem as nothing worth.
Scornful to me thou art, yet shalt not fend My wrath from him; though unto hell he flee, There too are we! And he the blood-defiled, should feel and rue, Though I were not, fiend-wrath that shall not end, Descending on his head who foully slew.
Eumenides By Aeschylus