CLYTEMNESTRA. Thou shalt not fare the worse for thy bad news, Nor be less dear to us. Hadst thou been dumb, Some other tongue had vented the sad tale. But ye have travelled weary leagues to-day, And doubtless need restoring. Take him, boy, With the attendant sharers of his travel, To the men's chambers. See them well bestowed, And do all things as one, that for neglect Shall give account. Meanwhile, our lord shall know What fate hath chanced; his wit and mine shall find What solace may be for these news unkind. [_Exeunt into the house._ CHORUS. When, O when, shall we, my sisters, Lift the strong full-throated hymn, To greet Orestes' triumph? Thou, O sacred Earth, and verge revered Of this lofty mound, where sleeps The kingly helmsman of our State, Hear thou, and help! prevail the hour Of suasive wile, and smooth deceit![n55] Herald him Hermes--lead him, thou The nightly courier of the dead,[n56] Through this black business of the sword! In sooth the host hath housed a grievous guest; For see where comes Orestes' nurse, all tears! Where goest thou, nurse, beyond our gates to walk, And why walks Grief, an unfee'd page, with thee! {121} [_Enter_ NURSE. NURSE. My mistress bids me bring Ægisthus quickly, To see the strangers face to face, that he May of their sad tale more assurance win From their own mouths. Herself to us doth show A murky-visaged grief; but in her eye Twinkles a secret joy, that time hath brought The consummation most devoutly wished By her--to us and Agamemnon's house Most fatal issue, if these news be true. Ægisthus, too, with a light heart will hear These Phocian tidings. O wretched me! what weight Of mingled woes from sire to son bequeathed, Have the gods burdened us withal! Myself, How many griefs have shaken my old heart; But this o'ertops them all! The rest I bore, As best I might, with patience: but Orestes, My own dear boy, my daily, hourly care, Whom from his mother's womb these breasts did suckle-- How often did I rise o' nights, and walked From room to room, to soothe his baby cries; But all my nursing now, and all my cares Fall fruitless. 'Tis a pithless thing a child, No forest whelp so helpless; one must even Wait on its humour, as the hour may bring. No voice it has to speak its fitful wants, When hunger, thirst, or Nature's need commands. The infant's belly asks no counsel. I Was a wise prophetess to all his wants, Though sometimes false, as others are. I was Nurse to the child, and fuller to its clothes, And both to one sad end. Alack the day! This double trade with little fruit I plied, What time I nursed Orestes for his father; For he is dead, and I must live to hear it. But I must go, and glad his heart, who lives Plague of this house, with news that make me weep. CHORUS. What say'st thou, Nurse? _how_ shall thy master come?