No clean death for the likes of them, by god! … Then, as doves or thrushes beating their spread wings against some snare rigged up in thickets —flying in for a cozy nest but a grisly bed receives them — so the women's heads were trapped in a line, nooses yanking their necks up, one by one so all might die a pitiful, ghastly death . . .

Unknown, Homer, Robert Fagles_ Knox,…, loc. 4450