Philoctetes falls in his paroxysms of pain; black blood flows from his wound.

Oedipus, covered with the blood that still drops from the sockets of the eyes he has torn out, complains bitterly of gods and men.

We hear the shrieks of Clytemnestra, murdered by her own son, and Electra, on the stage, cries: 'Strike! spare her not! she did not spare our father,' Prometheus is fastened to a rock by nails driven through his stomach and his arms.

The Furies reply to Clytemnestra's bleeding shade with inarticulate roars.

Art was in its infancy in the time of AEschylus as it was in London in Shakespeare's time." Whom shall we copy, then?
The moderns?
What! Copy copies! God forbid! "But," someone else will object, "according to your conception of the art, you seem to look for none but great poets, to count always upon genius." Art certainly does not count upon mediocrity.