11th CHORUS. Wisdom requires to probe the matter well: To guess is one thing, and to know another. 12th CHORUS. So wisely spoken.[n87] With full-voiced assent Inquire we first how Agamemnon fares. [_The scene opens from behind, and discovers_ CLYTEMNESTRA _standing over the dead bodies of_ AGAMEMNON _and_ CASSANDRA. CLYTEMNESTRA. I spoke to you before; and what I spoke Suited the time; nor shames me now to speak Mine own refutal. For how shall we entrap Our foe, our seeming friend, in scapeless ruin, Save that we fence him round with nets too high For his o'erleaping? What I did, I did Not with a random inconsiderate blow, But from old Hate, and with maturing Time. Here, where I struck, I take my rooted stand, Upon the finished deed:[n88] the blow so given, And with wise forethought so by me devised, That flight was hopeless, and to ward it vain. With many-folding net, as fish are caught, I drew the lines about him, mantled round With bountiful destruction; twice I struck him, And twice he groaning fell with limbs diffused Upon the ground; and as he fell, I gave The third blow, sealing him a votive gift To gloomy Hades, saviour of the dead. And thus he spouted forth his angry soul, Bubbling a bitter stream of frothy slaughter, And with the dark drops of the gory dew Bedashed me; I delighted nothing less Than doth the flowery calix, full surcharged With fruity promise, when Jove's welkin down Distils the rainy blessing. Men of Argos, Rejoice with me in this, or, if ye will not, {83} Then do I boast alone. If e'er 'twas meet To pour libations to the dead, he hath them In justest measure. By most righteous doom, Who drugged the cup with curses to the brim, Himself hath drunk damnation to the dregs. CHORUS. Thou art a bold-mouthed woman. Much we marvel To hear thee boast thy husband's murder thus. CLYTEMNESTRA. Ye tempt me as a woman, weak, unschooled. But what I say, ye know, or ought to know, I say with fearless heart. Your praise or blame Is one to me. Here Agamemnon lies, My husband, dead, the work of this right hand-- The hand of a true workman. Thus it stands. STROPHE. CHORUS. Woman! what food on wide earth growing Hast thou eaten of? What draught From the briny ocean quaffed, That for such deed the popular breath Of Argos should with curses crown thee, As a victim crowned for death? Thou hast cast off: thou hast cut off Thine own husband:[n89] thou shalt be From the city of the free Thyself a cast-off: justly hated With staunch hatred unabated.