When Neptune heard, in his strong hand he took His massy trident, and so soundly strook The rock Gyræan, that in two it cleft; Of which one fragment on the land he left, The other fell into the troubled seas; At which first rush’d Ajax Oïliades, And split his ship, and then himself afloat Swum on the rough waves of the world’s vast mote, Till having drunk a salt cup for his sin, There perish’d he. Thy brother yet did win The wreath from death, while in the waves they strove, Afflicted by the rev’rend wife of Jove. But when the steep mount of the Malian shore He seem’d to reach, a most tempestuous blore, Far to the fishy world that sighs so sore, Straight ravish’d him again as far away, As to th’ extreme bounds where the Agrians stay, Where first Thyestes dwelt, but then his son Ægisthus Thyestiades liv’d. This done, When his return untouch’d appear’d again, Back turn’d the Gods the wind, and set him then Hard by his house. Then, full of joy, he left His ship, and close t’ his country earth he cleft, Kiss’d it, and wept for joy, pour’d tear on tear, To set so wishedly his footing there. But see, a sentinel that all the year Crafty Ægisthus in a watchtow’r set To spy his landing, for reward as great As two gold talents, all his pow’rs did call To strict remembrance of his charge, and all Discharg’d at first sight, which at first he cast On Agamemnon, and with all his haste Inform’d Ægisthus. He an instant train Laid for his slaughter: Twenty chosen men Of his plebeians he in ambush laid; His other men he charg’d to see purvey’d A feast; and forth, with horse and chariots grac’d, He rode t’ invite him, but in heart embrac’d Horrible welcomes, and to death did bring, With treach’rous slaughter, the unwary king, Receiv’d him at a feast, and, like an ox Slain at his manger, gave him bits and knocks. No one left of Atrides’ train, nor one Sav’d to Ægisthus, but himself alone, All strew’d together there the bloody court.’ This said, my soul he sunk with his report, Flat on the sands I fell, tears spent their store, I light abhorr’d, my heart would live no more. When dry of tears, and tir’d of tumbling there, Th’ old Tell-truth thus my daunted spirits did cheer: ‘No more spend tears nor time, O Atreus’ son, With ceaseless weeping never wish was won, Use uttermost assay to reach thy home, And all unwares upon the murderer come, For torture, taking him thyself alive; Or let Orestes, that should far out-strive Thee in fit vengeance, quickly quit the light Of such a dark soul, and do thou the rite Of burial to him with a funeral feast.’