AGAMEMNON. Daughter of Leda, watcher of my fold, In sooth thy welcome, grave and amply told, Fitteth mine absent years. Though it had been Seemlier, methinks, some other, not my Queen, Had spoke these honours. For the rest, I say, Seek not to make me soft in woman’s way; Cry not thy praise to me wide-mouthed, nor fling Thy body down, as to some barbarous king. Nor yet with broidered hangings strew my path, To awake the unseen ire. ’Tis God that hath Such worship; and for mortal man to press Rude feet upon this broidered loveliness … I vow there is danger in it. Let my road Be honoured, surely; but as man, not god. Rugs for the feet and yonder broidered pall … The names ring diverse!… Aye, and not to fall Suddenly blind is of all gifts the best God giveth, for I reckon no man blest Ere to the utmost goal his race be run. So be it; and if, as this day I have done, I shall do always, then I fear no ill. CLYTEMNESTRA. Tell me but this, nowise against thy will … AGAMEMNON. My will, be sure, shall falter not nor fade. CLYTEMNESTRA. Was this a vow in some great peril made? AGAMEMNON. Enough! I have spoke my purpose, fixed and plain. CLYTEMNESTRA. Were Priam the conqueror … Think, would he refrain? AGAMEMNON. Oh, stores of broideries would be trampled then! CLYTEMNESTRA. Lord, care not for the cavillings of men! AGAMEMNON. The murmur of a people hath strange weight. CLYTEMNESTRA. Who feareth envy, feareth to be great. AGAMEMNON. ’Tis graceless when a woman strives to lead. CLYTEMNESTRA. When a great conqueror yields, ’tis grace indeed, AGAMEMNON. So in this war thou must my conqueror be? CLYTEMNESTRA. Yield! With good will to yield is victory! AGAMEMNON. Well, if I needs must … Be it as thou hast said! Quick! Loose me these bound slaves on which I tread, And while I walk yon wonders of the sea God grant no eye of wrath be cast on me From far! [_The Attendants untie his shoes_.] For even now it likes me not To waste mine house, thus marring underfoot The pride thereof, and wondrous broideries Bought in far seas with silver. But of these Enough.—And mark, I charge thee, this princess Of Ilion; tend her with all gentleness. God’s eye doth see, and loveth from afar, The merciful conqueror. For no slave of war Is slave by his own will. She is the prize And chosen flower of Ilion’s treasuries, Set by the soldiers’ gift to follow me. Now therefore, seeing I am constrained by thee And do thy will, I walk in conqueror’s guise Beneath my Gate, trampling sea-crimson dyes. [_As he dismounts and sets foot on the Tapestries_ CLYTEMNESTRA’S _women utter again their Cry of Triumph. The people bow or kneel as he passes._]