A deadly plenteousness of robe, I flung
All round him, and struck twice; and with two cries
His limbs turned water and broke; and as he lies
I cast my third stroke in, a prayer well-sped
To Zeus of Hell, who guardeth safe his dead! 
So there he gasped his life out as he lay;
And, gasping, the blood spouted ...  Like dark spray
That splashed, it came, a salt and deathly dew;
Sweet, sweet as God’s dear rain-drops ever blew
O’er a parched field, the day the buds are born! ... 
  Which things being so, ye Councillors high-born,
Depart in joy, if joy ye will.  For me,
I glory.  Oh, if such a thing might be
As o’er the dead thank-offering to outpour,
On this dead it were just, aye, just and more,
Who filled the cup of the House with treacheries
Curse-fraught, and here hath drunk it to the lees!

LEADER.

We are astonied at thy speech.  To fling,
Wild mouth! such vaunt over thy murdered King!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Wouldst fright me, like a witless woman?  Lo,
This bosom shakes not.  And, though well ye know,
I tell you ...  Curse me as ye will, or bless,
’Tis all one ...  This is Agamemnon; this,
My husband, dead by my right hand, a blow
Struck by a righteous craftsman.  Aye, ’tis so.

CHORUS.

Woman, what evil tree,
  What poison grown of the ground
Or draught of the drifting sea
  Way to thy lips hath found,
Making thee clothe thy heart
  In rage, yea, in curses burning
When thine own people pray? 
Thou hast hewn, thou hast cast away;
And a thing cast away thou art,
  A thing of hate and a spurning!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Aye, now, for me, thou hast thy words of fate;
Exile from Argos and the people’s hate
For ever!  Against him no word was cried,
When, recking not, as ’twere a beast that died,
With flocks abounding o’er his wide domain,
He slew his child, my love, my flower of pain, ... 
Great God, as magic for the winds of Thrace! 
Why was not he man-hunted from his place,
To purge the blood that stained him? ...  When the deed
Is mine, oh, then thou art a judge indeed! 
But threat thy fill.  I am ready, and I stand
Content; if thy hand beateth down my hand,
Thou rulest.  If aught else be God’s decree,
Thy lesson shall be learned, though late it be.

CHORUS.

Thy thought, it is very proud;
  Thy breath is the scorner’s breath;
Is not the madness loud
  In thy heart, being drunk with death? 
Yea, and above thy brow
  A star of the wet blood burneth! 
Oh, doom shall have yet her day,
The last friend cast away,
When lie doth answer lie
  And a stab for a stab returneth!

CLYTEMNESTRA.