STROPHE VIII. CHORUS. I'm tossed with doubt, on no sure counsel grounded, With fear confounded. No drizzling drops, a red ensanguined shower, Upon the crazy house, that was my tower, Comes wildly sweeping, On a new whetstone whets her blade the Fate With eyes unweeping. STROPHE IX. CHORUS. O Earth, O Earth, would thou hadst yawned, And in thy black pit whelmed me wholly, Ere I had seen my dear-loved lord In the silver bath thus bedded lowly! Who will bury him? and for him With salt tears what eyes shall brim? Wilt thou do it--thou, the wife That slew thy husband with the knife? Wilt thou dare, with blushless face, Thus to offer a graceless grace? With false show of pious moaning, Thine own damned deed atoning? STROPHE X. CHORUS. What voice the praises of the godlike man Shall publish clearly? {88} And o'er his tomb the tear from eyelids wan Shall drop sincerely? STROPHE XI. CLYTEMNESTRA. In vain thy doubtful heart is tried With many sorrows. By my hand Falling he fell, and dying died.[n95] I too will bury him; but no train Of mourning men for him shall plain In our Argive streets; but rather In the land of sunless cheer She shall be his convoy; she, Iphigenía, his daughter dear. By the stream of woes[f30] swift-flowing, Round his neck her white arms throwing, She shall meet her gentle father, And greet him with a kiss. ANTISTROPHE VIII. CHORUS. Crime quitting crime, and which the more profanely Were questioned vainly; 'Tis robber robbed, and slayer slain, for, though Oft-times it lag, with measured blow for blow Vengeance prevaileth, While great Jove lives.[n96] Who breaks the close-linked woe Which Heaven entaileth? ANTISTROPHE IX. CHORUS. O Earth, O Earth, would thou hadst yawned, And in thy black pit whelmed me wholly, Ere I had seen my dear-loved lord In the silver bath thus bedded lowly! Who will bury him? and for him With salt tears, what eyes shall brim? Wilt thou do it? thou, the wife That killed thy husband with the knife? Wilt thou dare, with blushless face, Thus to offer a graceless grace? With false show of pious moaning Thine own damned deed atoning? {89} ANTISTROPHE X. CHORUS. What voice the praises of the god-like man Shall publish clearly? And o'er his tomb the tear from eyelids wan Shall drop sincerely? ANTISTROPHE XI. CLYTEMNESTRA. Cease thy cries. Where Heaven entaileth, Thyself didst say, woe there prevaileth. But for this tide enough hath been Of bloody work. My score is clean. Now to the ancient stern Alastor, That crowns the Pleisthenids[f31] with disaster, I vow, having reaped his crop of woe From me, to others let him go, And hold with them his bloody bridal, Of horrid murders suicidal! Myself, my little store amassed Shall freely use, while it may last, From murdering madness healed. [_Enter_ ÆGISTHUS.