And as he sang and plucked the lyre’s strings, the pale ghosts wept. Tantalus made no try to grasp the ebbing pool. Ixion’s wheel 45 was thunderstruck. The vultures ceased to tear the liver,[10] and the Danaïds laid down their urns. You, Sisyphus, sat on your rock. Then for the first time, as they say, tears wet the Furies’ cheeks—his song had overcome them.
