OR. Kind faithful friend, how well thou mak'st appear Thy constancy in service to our house! As some good steed, aged, but nobly bred, Slacks not his spirit in the day of war, But points his ears to the fray, even so dost thou Press on and urge thy master in the van. Hear, then, our purpose, and if aught thy mind, Keenly attent, discerns of weak or crude In this I now set forth, admonish me. I, when I visited the Pythian shrine Oracular, that I might learn whereby To punish home the murderers of my sire, Had word from Phoebus which you straight shall hear: 'No shielded host, but thine own craft, O King! The righteous death-blow to thine arm shall bring.' Then, since the will of Heaven is so revealed, Go thou within, when Opportunity Shall marshal thee the way, and gathering all Their business, bring us certain cognizance. Age and long absence are a safe disguise; They never will suspect thee who thou art. And let thy tale be that another land, Phocis, hath sent thee forth, and Phanoteus, Than whom they have no mightier help in war. Then, prefaced with an oath, declare thy news, Orestes' death by dire mischance, down-rolled From wheel-borne chariot in the Pythian course. So let the fable be devised; while we, As Phoebus ordered, with luxuriant locks Shorn from our brows, and fair libations, crown My father's sepulchre, and thence return Bearing aloft the shapely vase of bronze That's hidden hard by in brushwood, as thou knowest, And bring them welcome tidings, that my form Is fallen ere now to ashes in the fire. How should this pain me, in pretence being dead, Really to save myself and win renown? No saying bodes men ill, that brings them gain. Oft have I known the wise, dying in word, Return with glorious salutation home. So lightened by this rumour shall mine eye Blaze yet like bale-star on mine enemies. O native earth! and Gods that hold the land, Accept me here, and prosper this my way! Thou, too, paternal hearth! To thee I come, Justly to cleanse thee by behest from heaven. Send me not bootless, Gods, but let me found A wealthy line of fair posterity! I have spoken. To thy charge! and with good heed Perform it. We go forth. The Occasion calls, Great taskmaster of enterprise to men. ELECTRA (_within_). Woe for my hapless lot! OLD M. Hark! from the doors, my son, methought there came A moaning cry, as of some maid within. OR. Can it be poor Electra? Shall we stay, And list again the lamentable sound? OLD M. Not so. Before all else begin the attempt To execute Apollo's sovereign will, Pouring libation to thy sire: this makes Victory ours, and our success assured. [_Exeunt_ _Enter_ ELECTRA. MONODY.