_Clytæm._ It is not thine to speak; 'Twas at our hands he fell, Yea, he fell low in death, And we will bury him, 1530 Not with the bitter tears of those who weep As inmates of the house; But she, his child, Iphigeneia, there Shall meet her father, and with greeting kind, E'en as is fit, by that swift-flowing ford, Dark stream of bitter woes, Shall clasp him in her arms, And give a daughter's kiss. ANTISTROPHE IX _Chor._ Lo! still reproach upon reproach doth come; Hard are these things to judge: The spoiler still is spoiled, The slayer pays his debt; Yea, while Zeus liveth through the ages, this 1540 Lives also, that the doer dree his weird; For this is law fast fixed. Who now can drive from out the kingly house The brood of curses dark? The race to Atè cleaves. ANTISTROPHE X _Clytæm._ Yes, thou hast touched with truth That word oracular; But I for my part wish, (Binding with strongest oath The evil dæmon of the Pleisthenids,)[396] Though hard it be to bear, To rest content with this our present lot; And, for the future, that he go to vex Another race with homicidal deaths. 1550 Lo! 'tis enough for me, Though small my share of wealth, At last to have freed my house From madness that sets each man's hand 'gainst each. _Enter_ ÆGISTHOS