Chorus.
Hark! Hark! again!
How is't? What's wrought within?
Stand we aloof while Slaughter does her work,
That of these ills we guiltless may appear:
For now achieved the issue is of strife.
[The Chorus retire to the further side of the tomb.]
Servant.
[Rushing out of the palace.]
Oh woe! oh grievous woe! our master's slain; 860
Yet once again, and for the third time, woe.
Ægisthos is no more.—With utmost speed
[He knocks at the door of the women's palace.]
Fling open now, and of the women's doors,
The bars unloose; full strength is needed here,
Not for the slain; what booteth aid to him?
Alas! alas! what, shout I to the deaf,
Or clamour vainly in dull sleepers' ears?
What doeth Clytemnestra? Where is she?
Her neck it seems toucheth the razor's edge;
Herself, ere long shall perish, justly slain. 870
Clytemnestra.
[Enters hurriedly, unattended.]
What is't? What tumult raise ye in the house?
Servant.
The dead, I tell you, now the living slays.
