24
Agamemnon.
Herald.
All hail!
So please the gods, I grudge not now to die.
Chorus.
Love for thy father-land thy heart hath wrung!
Herald.
So wrung that from mine eyes fall tears of joy.
Chorus.
Sweet the heart-sickness that o'ercame you thus.
Herald.
The key I lack which may thy words unlock.
Chorus.
Smit with desire for those who longed for you.
Herald.
Hath Argos yearned then for the yearning host?
Chorus.
Ay, so that oft from darken'd soul I groaned.
Herald.
Whence this sad gloom, abhorrent to the host? 530
Chorus.
Silence I long have held bale's safest cure.
Herald.
How! Aught didst fear in absence of thy lords?
Chorus.
To die was oft my wish as whilom thine.
