That from my hateful slayers they exact too Pay for the dead slave — easy-managed hand’s work!
 CHOROS. Alas for mortal matters! Happy-fortuned, — Why, any shade would turn them: if unhappy, By throws the wetting sponge has spoiled the picture! And more by much in mortals this I pity. The being well-to-do — Insatiate a desire of this Born with all mortals is, Nor any is there who Well-being forces off, aroints From roofs whereat a finger points, No more come in! exclaiming. This man, too, To take the city of Priamos did the celestials give, And, honoured by the god, he homeward comes; But now if, of the former, he shall pay The blood back, and, for those who ceased to live, Dying, for deaths in turn new punishment he dooms— Who, being mortal, would not pray With an unmischievous Daimon to have been born — who would not, hearing thus?
 AGAMEMNON. Ah me! I am struck — a right-aimed stroke within me! CHOROS. Silence! Who is it shouts stroke — right-aimedly a
 wounded one? AGAMEMNON. Ah me! indeed again, — a second, struck by! CHOROS. This work seems to me completed by this Ah me of the king’s; But we somehow may together share in solid counsellings. CHOROS 1. I, in the first place, my opinion tell you: — To cite the townsmen, by help-cry, to house here. CHOROS 2. To me, it seems we ought to fall upon them At quickest — prove the fact by sword fresh-flowing!