Such goblet having filled with cursed ills
At home,—himself on his return drains off.
Chorus.
We marvel at thy tongue, how bold thy speech, 1370
Who o'er thy husband makest so thy vaunt.
Clytemnestra.
As witless woman are ye proving me;
But I with steadfast heart, to you who know,
Proclaim,—and whether ye will praise or blame,
It recks me not,—this man is Agamemnon,—
My husband, dead, the work of this right hand,
Doer of righteous deed;—so stands the case.
Chorus. Strophe.
O woman, what earth-nurtured bane,
What potion, upsent from the wind-ruffled sea,
Hast tasted, that on thine own head dost heap 1380
Curses, for incense, folk-mutter'd and deep!
Hast cast off, hast slain;—
Out-cast, uncitied, thyself shalt be,
Huge hate of the townsmen blasting thee.
Clytemnestra.
Me thou dost doom to exile,—to endure
The people's hate, their curse deep-muttered,—thou,
Who 'gainst this man of yore hadst naught to urge.
He, all unmoved, as though brute life he quenched,
The while his fleecy pastures teem'd with flocks,
