_Clytæm._ Thou speak'st big words, as if the deed were mine; Yet think thou not of me, As Agamemnon's spouse; But in the semblance of this dead man's wife, The old and keen Avenger of the house Of Atreus, that cruel banqueter of old, Hath wrought out vengeance full On him who lieth here, 1480 And full-grown victim slain Over the younger victims of the past.[394] ANTISTROPHE V _Chor._ That thou art guiltless found Of this foul murder who will witness bear? How can it be so, how? And yet, perchance, As helper to the deed, Might come the avenging Fiend Of that ancestral time; And in this rush of murders of near kin Dark Ares presses on, Where he will vengeance work For clotted gore of children slain as food. 1490 ANTISTROPHE VI Ah me! ah me! My king, my king, how shall I weep for thee? What shall I speak from heart that truly loves? And now thou liest there, breathing out thy life, In impious deed of death, In this fell spider's web,— ANTISTROPHE VII (Yes, woe is me! woe, woe! Woe for this couch of thine dishonourable!)— Slain by a subtle death, With sword two-edged which her right hand did wield. ANTISTROPHE VIII _Clytæm._ Nay, not dishonourable His death doth seem to me: Did he not work a doom, In this our house with guile?[395] 1500 Mine own dear child, begotten of this man, Iphigeneia, wept with many a tear, He slew; now slain himself in recompense, Let him not boast in Hell, Since he the forfeit pays, Pierced by the sword in death, For all the evil that his hand began. STROPHE IX _Chor._ I stand perplexed in soul, deprived of power Of quick and ready thought, Where now to turn, since thus 1510 Our home is falling low. I shrink in fear from the fierce pelting storm Of blood that shakes the basement of the house: No more it rains in drops: And for another deed of mischief dire, Fate whets the righteous doom On other whetstones still. ANTISTROPHE II O Earth! O Earth! Oh, would thou had'st received me, Ere I saw him on couch Of bath with silvered walls thus stretched in death! Who now will bury him, who wail? Wilt thou, When thou hast slain thy husband, have the heart 1520 To mourn his death, and for thy monstrous deeds Do graceless grace? And who will chant the dirge With tears in truth of heart, Over our godlike chief? STROPHE X