ORESTES. To scoff at thine, were scoffing at mine own. ELECTRA. And can it be? Art thou indeed Orestes? {106} ORESTES. My bodily self thou seest, and dost not know! And yet the votive lock shorn from my head, Being to thine, my sister's hair, conform, And my foot's print with curious ardour scanned, Could wing thy faith beyond the reach of sense, That thou didst seem to see me! Take the lock, And match it nicely with this mother crop That bore it. More; behold this web,[n20] the fruit Of thine own toil, the strokes of thine own shuttle, The wild beasts of the woods by thine own hand Empictured! Nay, be calm, and keep thy joy Within wise bounds. Too well I know that they Who should be friends here are our bitterest foes. ELECTRA. O of my father's house the chiefest care! Seed of salvation, hope with many, tears Bewept, with thy strong arm thou shalt restore Thy father's house. O my life's eye, thou dost Four several functions corporate in one Discharge for me! My father thou, and thine The gentler love that should have been my mother's, My justly hated mother; and in her place, Who died by merciless immolation,[f5] thou Must be my sister, so even as thou art My faithful brother, loved much and revered. May Power and Justice aid thee, mighty Twain,[n21] And a third mightier, JOVE supremely great. ORESTES. O Jove, great Jove, of all these things be thou Spectator! And behold the orphan'd brood, Of eagle father strangled in the folds And deadly coil of loathly basilisk! Them sireless see in dire starvation's gripe, Too weak of wing to bear unto the nest Their father's prey. So we before thee stand, Myself and this Electra, sire-bereaved, And exiles both from our paternal roof. If we, the chickens of the pious father That crowned thee with much sacrifice, shall fail, Where shalt thou find a hand like his, to offer Gifts from the steaming banquet? If the brood Of the eagle perish, where shall be thy signs, That speak from Heaven persuasive to mankind? If all this royal trunk shall rot, say who, {107} When blood of oxen flows on holidays, Shall stand beside thine altar? O give ear, And of this house so little now, and fallen So low, rebuild the fortunes! CHORUS. Hush, my children! If ye would save your father's house, speak softly, Lest some one hear, and, with swift babblement, Inform their ears who rule; whom may I see Flayed on a fire, with streaming pitch well fed!