ORESTES. Behold this tyrant pair, my father's murderers, Usurpers of this land, and of this house Destroyers. They this throne did use in pride, And now in love, as whoso looks may guess, They lie together, all their vows fulfilled. Death to my hapless father, and to lie Themselves on a common bier--this was their vow; And they have vowed it well. Behold these toils, Wherewith they worked destruction to my father, Chained his free feet, and manacled his hands. There--spread it forth--approach--peruse it nicely. This mortal vest, that so the father--not My father, but the Sun that fathers all With light[n68]--may see what godless deed was done Here by my mother. Let him witness duly, That not unjustly I have spilt this blood-- My mother's; for Ægisthus recks me not; As an adulterer should, he died: but she, That did devise such foul detested wrong Against the lord, to whom beneath her zone She bore a burden, once so valued, now A weight that damns her; what was she?--a viper Or a torpedo--that with biteless touch Strikes numb who handles.[n69] Harsh the smoothest phrase To name the bold unrighteous will she used. And for this fowler's net--this snare--this trap-- This cloth to wrap the dead[n70]--this veil to curtain A bloody bath--teach me a name for it! Such murderous toils the ruffians use, who spill Their neighbour's blood, that they may seize his gold, And warm their heart with plenty not their own. Lodge no such mate with me! Sooner may I Live by high Heaven accursed, and childless die. CHORUS. A sorry work--alas! alas! A dismal death she found. Nor sorrow quite from man may pass That lives above the ground. ORESTES. A speaking proof! Behold, Ægisthus' sword Hath left its witness on this robe; the time Hath paled the murtherous spot, but where it was The sumptuous stole hath lost its radiant dye. {129} Alas! I know not, when mine eyes behold This father-murdering web, if I should own Joy lord, or grief. Let grief prevail. I grieve Our crimes, our woes, our generation doomed, Our tearful trophies blazoned with a curse. CHORUS. The gods so will that, soon or late, Each mortal taste of sorrow; A frown to-day from surly Fate, A biting blast to-morrow.