Orestes. 
                      My heart too doth bleed,
To think our father wrought so dire a deed.

Iphigenia. 
My life hath known no father.  Any road
    To any end may run,
As god’s will drives; else ...

Orestes. 
                             Else, unhappy one,
Thyself had spilt this day thy brother’s blood!

Iphigenia. 
Ah God, my cruel deed! ...  ’Twas horrible. 
’Twas horrible ...  O brother!  Did my heart
    Endure it? ...  And things fell
Right by so frail a chance; and here thou art. 
      Bloody my hand had been,
      My heart heavy with sin. 
      And now, what end cometh? 
    Shall Chance yet comfort me,
    Finding a way for thee
    Back from the Friendless Strand,
      Back from the place of death—­
    Ere yet the slayers come
    And thy blood sink in the sand—­
    Home unto Argos, home? ... 
  Hard heart, so swift to slay,
  Is there to life no way? ...

    No ship! ...  And how by land? ... 
      A rush of feet
    Out to the waste alone. 
      Nay:  ’twere to meet
    Death, amid tribes unknown
    And trackless ways of the waste ... 
    Surely the sea were best. 
    Back by the narrow bar
      To the Dark Blue Gate! ... 
    Ah God, too far, too far! ... 
      Desolate!  Desolate!

What god or man, what unimagined flame,
  Can cleave this road where no road is, and bring
To us last wrecks of Agamemnon’s name,
    Peace from long suffering?

Leader. 
Lo, deeds of wonder and beyond surmise,
Not as tales told, but seen of mine own eyes.

Pylades. 
Men that have found the arms of those they love
Would fain long linger in the joy thereof. 
But we, Orestes, have no respite yet
For tears or tenderness.  Let us forget
All but the one word Freedom, calling us
To live, not die by altars barbarous. 
Think not of joy in this great hour, nor lose
Fortune’s first hold.  Not thus do wise men use.

Orestes. 
I think that Fortune watcheth o’er our lives,
Surer than we.  But well said:  he who strives
Will find his gods strive for him equally.

Iphigenia. 
He shall not check us so, nor baffle me
Of this one word.  How doth Electra move
Through life?  Ye twain are all I have to love.

Orestes. 
A wife and happy:  this man hath her hand.

Iphigenia. 
And what man’s son is he, and of what land?

Orestes. 
Son of King Strophios he is called of men.

Iphigenia. 
Whom Atreus’ daughter wed?—­My kinsman then.

Orestes. 
Our cousin, and my true and only friend.

Iphigenia. 
He was not born, when I went to mine end.

Orestes. 
No, Strophios had no child for many a year.