_Her._ Good is the issue; but in so long time Some things, one well might say, have prospered well, And some give cause for murmurs. Save the Gods, Who free from sorrow lives out all his life? For should I tell of toils, and how we lodged Full hardly, seldom putting in to shore,[313] And then with couch full hard.... What gave us not Good cause for mourning? What ill had we not 540 As daily portion? And what passed on land, That brought yet greater hardship: for our beds Were under our foes' walls, and meadow mists From heaven and earth still left us wringing wet, A constant mischief to our garments, making Our hair as shaggy as the beasts'.[314] And if One spoke of winter frosts that killed the birds, By Ida's snow-storms made intolerable,[315] Or heat, when Ocean in its noontide couch Windless reclined and slept without a wave.... But why lament o'er this? Our toil is past; 550 Past too is theirs who in the warfare fell, So that no care have they to rise again. Why should I count the number of the dead, Or he that lives mourn o'er a past mischance? To change and chance I bid a long Farewell: With us, the remnant of the Argive host, Good fortune wins, no ills as counterpoise. So it is meet to this bright sun we boast, Who travel homeward over land and sea; “The Argive host who now have captured Troïa, 560 These spoils of battle[316] to the Gods of Hellas Hang on their pegs, enduring prize and joy.”[317] Hearing these things we ought to bless our country And our commanders; and the grace of Zeus That wrought this shall be honoured. My tale's told. _Chor._ Thy words o'ercome me, and I say not nay; To learn good keeps youth's freshness with the old. 'Tis meet these things should be a special care To Clytæmnestra and the house, and yet That they should make me sharer in their joy. _Enter_ CLYTÆMNESTRA