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Your boys are dead, killed by their mother's hand.
By the gods, let me feel their tender skin.
She was suffering a double agony— around her head the golden diadem shot out amazing molten streams of fire burning everything, and the fine woven robe, your children's gift, consumed the poor girl's flesh.
You hard and wretched woman, just like stone or iron to kill your children,
You weren't going to shame my marriage bed and have a pleasant life ridiculing me.
I understand too well the dreadful act I'm going to commit, but my judgment can't check my anger, and that incites the greatest evils human beings do.
Are you in your right mind, lady, or insane?
