I have no wit nor skill in prophecy.

Who is he by voice immortal named from Pythia's rocky cell,

Doer of foul deeds of bloodshed, horrors that no tongue can tell?

Fleeter than storm-swift steeds,

Armed with the lightnings of his Sire, Apollo.

Yea, but now flashed forth the summons from Parnassus' snowy peak,

"Near and far the undiscovered doer of this murder seek!"

Now like a sullen bull he roves