Leader.
Ah, come! 'Tis best, as the world lies to-day.
Leave this high-thronèd chariot, and obey!
Clytemnestra.
How long must I stand dallying at the Gate?
Even now the beasts to Hestia consecrate
Wait by the midmost fire, since there is wrought
This high fulfilment for which no man thought.
Wherefore, if 'tis thy pleasure to obey
Aught of my will, prithee, no more delay!
If, dear to sense, thou wilt not understand . . .
Thou show her, not with speech but with brute hand!
Leader.
The strange maid needs a rare interpreter.
She is trembling like a wild beast in a snare.
Clytemnestra.
'Fore God, she is mad, and heareth but her own
Folly! A slave, her city all o'erthrown,
She needs must chafe her bridle, till this fret
Be foamed away in blood and bitter sweat.
I waste no more speech, thus to be defied.
Leader.
I pity thee so sore, no wrath nor pride
Is in me.—Come, dismount! Bend to the stroke
Fate lays on thee, and learn to feel thy yoke.
