Which should not draw on us the evil eye. Enough we've borne already. Now, beloved, Step from thy chariot; yet not on the earth Shall Ilium's glorious conqueror set his foot. Haste, haste, ye handmaidens, to whom the charge Was given to spread the ground with tapestry, And make a purple pathway for my lord, Whom justice brings to his unlooked for home. For aught beside, care, lovingly awake, The gods so willing, shall good order take. AGAMEMNON. Daughter of Leda, guardian of my home, Thy speech is as my absence, long drawn out. Well measured praise from other lips must come; I pray thee stint thy woman's blandishments, Nor, like some proud barbarian's minion vile, Crawl to my feet with abject flatteries. I would not have thy draperies on me draw The evil eye; to gods such state belongs, Not mortals; for a mortal thus to tread On broidery were to tempt the wrath of heaven. Pay to me honours human, not divine. Foot-cloths or broidery need I none to tell What fame will voice aloud. Discretion still Is the best gift of heaven, and he alone Is truly blest who prospers to the end. Let but this fortune hold, I've naught to fear. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Yet herein yield to her that loves thee well. AGAMEMNON. Know that I will not swerve from my resolve. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Is it some vow, vowed in an hour of fear? AGAMEMNON. I well knew my own mind when thus I spoke. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Had Priam conquered, what would he have done? AGAMEMNON. He, certes, would have trod on tapestry. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Be not affrighted by the tongues of men. AGAMEMNON. Yet is the people's voice a mighty power. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Who shrinks from envy dares not to be great. AGAMEMNON To love contention is not womanly. CLYTAEMNESTRA Yet the victorious can afford defeat. AGAMEMNON. Dost thou, too, prize defeat as victory? CLYTAEMNESTRA. Defeat or victory, yield thee at my prayer. AGAMEMNON. So be it, an thou wilt. Let some one loose My sandals, lest if, proudly shod with these, I tread a path so costly, I may draw, Presumptuous, from above the evil eye. Great shame it were our substance thus to waste, Trampling on costly web with sandaled feet. Of that enough. Now take this stranger in (_Pointing to Cassandra._) In kindly wise; who gently use their power Shall merit mercy in the eye of heaven. Misfortune, not misdoing, makes the slave. This damsel, choicest flower of all we won, The army's gift to me, have I brought home. Now let me, since my will has bent to thine, Walk over purple to my royal hall. CLYTAEMNESTRA.