ORESTES. Tell those within that a poor stranger waits Before the gate, bearer of weighty news. Speed thee; night's dusky chariot swoopeth down, And the dark hour invites the travelling man To fix his anchor 'neath some friendly roof. Thy mistress I would see, if here a mistress Rules, or thy master rather, if a master. For with a man a man may plainly deal, But nice regard for the fine feeling ear[n51] Oft mars the teller's tale, when women hear. [_Enter_ CLYTEMNESTRA. CLYTEMNESTRA. Strangers, speak your desire. Whate'er becomes This house to give is free to you to share. Hot baths,[n52] a couch to soothe your travelled toil, Blithe welcoming eyes, and gentle tendance; these I freely give. If aught beyond ye crave, There's counsel with my lord. I'll speak to him. ORESTES. I am a stranger come from Phocian Daulis. When I, my burden to my back well saddled, Stood for the road accoutred, lo! a man To me not known, nor of me knowing more, But seeing only that my feet were bound For Argos, thus accosted me (his name, I learned, was Strophius the Phocian): Stranger, If Argos be thy purpose, bear this message From me to whom it touches near. Orestes Is dead; charge well thy memory with the tale, And bring me mandate back, if so his friends Would have him carried to his native home, Or he with us due sepulture shall find, A sojourner for ever. A brazen urn Holds all the remnant of the much-wept man, The ashes of his clay. Thus Strophius spake: And if ye are the friends, whom chiefly grief Pricks for his loss, my mission's done; at least His parents will be grieved to hear 't. ELECTRA.[n53] Woe's me! Sheer down we topple from proud height; harsh fate {120} Is ours to wrestle with. O jealous Curse, How dost thou eye us fatal from afar, And with thy well-trimmed bow shoot chiefly there Where thou wert least suspect! Thou hast me now A helpless captive lorn, and reft of all My trustiest friends. Orestes also gone, Whose feet above the miry slough most sure Seemed planted! Now our revelry of hope, The fair account that should have surgeoned woe, Is audited at nothing![n54] ORESTES. Would the gods, Where happy hosts, give welcome, I were guest On a more pleasant tale! The entertained No greater joy can know than with good news To recreate his entertainer's ears; But piety forbade, nor faith allowed To lop the head of truth.