That robs the stranger. He would snare them so,
And kill them, kill them, and his heart would glow. . . .
Not in my flesh, not in my house, O God,
May this thing live! Ere that. Oh, lift thy rod
And smiting blast me, dead without a child!
Chorus.
O deeds of anger and of pain!
O woman miserably slain!
Alas! Alas!
And he who lives shall grieve again.
Orestes.
Did she the deed or no? This robe defiled
Doth bear me witness, where its web is gored,
How deep the dye was of Aigisthos' sword;
And blood hath joined with the old years, to spoil
The many tinctures of the broidered coil.
Oh, now I weep, now praise him where he died,
And calling on this web that pierced his side. . . .
Pain, pain is all my doing, all my fate,
My race, and my begetting: and I hate
This victory that sears me like a brand. . . .
Chorus.
No mortal thro' this life shall go
For ever portionless of woe.
Alas! Alas!
It comes to all, or swift or slow.
Orestes.
Yet wait: for I would have you understand.
The end I know not. But methinks I steer
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