Orestes.
Nought—save, being dead, she seeth not the light.
Iphigeneia.
Ah, hapless she, and hapless sire that slew!565
Orestes.
Slain for an evil woman—graceless grace!
Iphigeneia.
And lives the dead king's son in Argos yet?
Orestes.
He lives, unhappy, nowhere, everywhere.
Iphigeneia.
False dreams, avaunt! So then ye were but nought.
Orestes.
Ay, and not even Gods, whom men call wise,570
Are less deceitful than be fleeting dreams.
Utter confusion is in things divine,
As in things human. This worst grief remains,
When, not of folly, but through words of seers,
Comes ruin—how deep, they that prove it know.575
Chorus.
Alas, alas! Of me—my parents—what?
Live they, or live they not? Ah, who can tell?
Iphigeneia.
Hearken, for I have found us a device,
