antistrophe 2
Shame on the younger gods who tread down right,  Sitting on thrones of might!  Woe on the altar of earth’s central fane!  Clotted on step and shrine,  Behold, the guilt of blood, the ghastly stain!
strophe 3
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.
antistrophe 3
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