_Aegisthus:_ What? seem I less than Atreus' son to thee, Who am Thyestes' son? _Clytemnestra:_ Why, so thou art, And grandson too. _Aegisthus:_ My getting shames me not; For Phoebus' self is voucher for my birth. _Clytemnestra:_ Name Phoebus not with thine incestuous stock, 295 Who checked his flying steeds and fled the sky, Withdrawn in sudden night, lest he behold Thy father's feast. Wouldst thou besmirch the gods, Thou, trained to revel in unlawful love? Then get thee gone in haste, and rid mine eyes 300 Of that which doth disgrace this noble house; This home is waiting for its king and lord. _Aegisthus:_ Exile is naught to me, for I am used To woe. At thy command I'll farther flee Than from this house: I but await thy word To plunge my dagger in this woeful breast. 305 _Clytemnestra_ [_aside_]: Shall I in cruel scorn desert him now? Who sin in company should suffer so. [_To_ Aegisthus.] Nay, come with me; we will together wait The issue of our dark and dangerous fate. [_Exeunt into the palace._] _Chorus:_[51] Sing Phoebus' praise, O race renowned; 310 With festal laurel wreathe your heads; And let your virgin locks flow free, Ye Argive maids. And ye who drink of the cold Erasinus, Who dwell by Eurotas, 315 Who know the green banks of the silent Ismenus Come join in our singing; And do ye swell our chorus, ye far Theban daughters, Whom the child of Tiresias, Manto the seer, Once taught to bow down to the Delian gods. 320 Now peace has come: Unbend thy victorious bow, O Apollo, Lay down from thy shoulder thy quiver of arrows, And let thy tuneful lyre resound To the touch of thy swift-flying fingers. 325 No lofty strain be thine today, But such as on thy milder lyre Thou art wont to sound when the learnéd muse Surveys thy sports. And yet, an' thou wilt, strike a heavier strain, 330 As when thou didst sing of the Titans o'ercome By Jupiter's hurtling bolts; When mountain on lofty mountain piled, Pelion, Ossa, and pine-clad Olympus, Built high to the sky for the impious monsters 335 Their ladder's rocky rounds. Thou too be with us, Juno, queen, Who sharest the throne of heaven's lord. 340 Mycenae's altars blaze for thee. Thou alone dost protect us, Anxious and suppliant; Thou art the goddess of peace, And the issues of war are thine; 345 And thine are the laurels of victory twined On the brow of our king Agamemnon. To thee the boxwood flute resounds In solemn festival;