_Nurse:_ Still let thy wifely duty hold thee back. 155 _Clytemnestra:_ What long-deserted wife regards her lord? _Nurse:_ Your common children--hast no thought of them? _Clytemnestra:_ I do think on my daughter's wedding rites, High-born Achilles, and my husband's lies. _Nurse:_ She freed our Grecian fleet from long delay, 160 And waked from their dull calm the sluggish seas. _Clytemnestra:_ Oh, shameful thought! that I, the heaven-born child Of Tyndarus, should give my daughter up To save the Grecian fleet! I see once more In memory my daughter's wedding day, Which _he_ made worthy of base Pelops' house, 165 When, with his pious face, this father stood Before the altar fires--Oh, monstrous rites! E'en Calchas shuddered at his own dread words And backward-shrinking fires. O bloody house, That ever wades through crime to other crime! With blood we soothe the winds, with blood we war. 170 _Nurse:_ Yet by that blood a thousand vessels sailed. _Clytemnestra:_ But not with favoring omens did they sail; The port of Aulis fairly drave them forth. So launched in war, he still no better fared. Smit with a captive's love, unmoved by prayer, 175 He held as spoil the child of Phoebus' priest, E'en then, as now, a sacred maiden's thrall. Nor could the stern Achilles bend his will, Nor he whose eye alone can read the fates (A faithful seer to us, to captives mild), 180 Nor his pest-smitten camp and gleaming pyres. When baffled Greece stood tottering to her fall, This man with passion pined, had time for love, Thought ever on amours; and, lest his couch Should be of any Phrygian maid bereft, 185 He lusted for Achilles' beauteous bride, Nor blushed to tear her from her lover's arms. Fit foe for Paris! Now new wounds he feels, And burns, inflamed by mad Cassandra's love. And, now that Troy is conquered, home he comes, 190 A captive's husband, Priam's son-in-law! Arise, my soul; no easy task essay; Be swift to act. What dost thou, sluggish, wait Till Phrygian rivals wrest thy power away? Or do thy virgin daughters stay thy hand, 195 Or yet Orestes, image of his sire? Nay, 'tis for these thy children thou must act, Lest greater ills befall them; for, behold, A mad stepmother soon shall call them hers. Through thine own heart, if so thou must, prepare To drive the sword, and so slay two in one. 200 Let thy blood flow with his; in slaying, die. For death is sweet if with a foeman shared.