Pylades. 
Thy speech is quicker, friend, else I had said
The same; though surely all men visited
By ships have heard the fall of the great kings. 
But let that be:  I think of other things ...

Orestes. 
What?  If thou hast need of me, let it be said.

Pylades. 
I cannot live for shame if thou art dead. 
I sailed together with thee; let us die
Together.  What a coward slave were I,
Creeping through Argos and from glen to glen
Of wind-torn Phocian hills!  And most of men—­
For most are bad—­will whisper how one day
I left my friend to die and made my way
Home.  They will say I watched the sinking breath
Of thy great house and plotted for thy death
To wed thy sister, climb into thy throne... 
I dread, I loathe it.—­Nay, all ways but one
Are shut.  My last breath shall go forth with thine,
Thy bloody sword, thy gulf of fire be mine
Also.  I love thee and I dread men’s scorn.

Orestes. 
Peace from such thoughts!  My burden can be borne;
But where one pain sufficeth, double pain
I will not bear.  Nay, all that scorn and stain
That fright thee, on mine own head worse would be
If I brought death on him who toiled for me. 
It is no bitter thing for such an one
As God will have me be, at last to have done
With living.  Thou art happy; thy house lies
At peace with God, unstained in men’s eyes;
Mine is all evil fate and evil life ... 
Nay, thou once safe, my sister for thy wife—­
So we agreed:—­in sons of hers and thine
My name will live, nor Agamemnon’s line
Be blurred for ever like an evil scroll. 
Back!  Rule thy land!  Let life be in thy soul! 
And when thou art come to Hellas, and the plain
Of Argos where the horsemen ride, again—­
Give me thy hand!—­I charge thee, let there be
Some death-mound and a graven stone for me. 
My sister will go weep thereat, and shear
A tress or two.  Say how I ended here,
Slain by a maid of Argolis, beside
God’s altar, in mine own blood purified.

And fare thee well.  I have no friend like thee
For truth and love, O boy that played with me,
And hunted on Greek hills, O thou on whom
Hath lain the hardest burden of my doom! 
Farewell.  The Prophet and the Lord of Lies
Hath done his worst.  Far out from Grecian skies
With craft forethought he driveth me, to die
Where none may mark how ends his prophecy! 
I trusted in his word.  I gave him all
My heart.  I slew my mother at his call;
For which things now he casts me here to die.

Pylades. 
Thy tomb shall fail thee not.  Thy sister I
Will guard for ever.  I, O stricken sore,
Who loved thee living and shall love thee more
Dead.  But for all thou standest on the brink,
God’s promise hath not yet destroyed thee.  Think! 
How oft, how oft the darkest hour of ill
Breaks brightest into dawn, if Fate but will!