| #### CHAPTER 140 |

| #### #### When the Athenians, anxious to consult the oracle, sent their messengers to Delphi, hardly had the envoys completed the customary rites about the sacred precinct, and taken their seats inside the sanctuary of the god, when the Pythoness, Aristonice by name, thus prophesied ####
| #### Wretches, why sit ye here? Fly, fly to the ends of creation, Quitting your homes, and the crags which your city crowns with her circlet. Neither the head, nor the body is firm in its place, nor at bottom Firm the feet, nor the hands; nor resteth the middle uninjur'd. All - all ruined and lost. Since fire, and impetuous Ares, Speeding along in a Syrian chariot, hastes to destroy her. Not alone shalt thou suffer; full many the towers he will level, Many the shrines of the gods he will give to a fiery destruction. Even now they stand with dark sweat horribly dripping, Trembling and quaking for fear; and lo! from the high roofs trickleth Black blood, sign prophetic of hard distresses impending. Get ye away from the temple; and brood on the ills that await ye! |
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