This same to praise I from all sides abound in — Clearly to know — Atreides, what he’s doing!
 KLUTAIMNESTRA. Much having been before to purpose spoken, The opposite to say I shall not shamed be: For how should one, to enemies, — in semblance, Friends, — enmity proposing, — sorrow’s net-frame Enclose, a height superior to outleaping? To me, indeed, this struggle of old — not mindless Of an old victory — came: with time, I grant you! I stand where I have struck, things once accomplished: And so have done, — and this deny I shall not, — As that his fate was nor to fly nor ward off. A wrap-round with no outlet, as for fishes, I fence about him — the rich woe of the garment: I strike him twice, and in a double Ah-me! He let his limbs go — there! And to him, fallen, The third blow add I, giving — of Below-ground Zeus, guardian of the dead — the votive favour. Thus in the mind of him he rages, falling, And blowing forth a brisk blood-spatter, strikes me With the dark drop of slaughterous dew — rejoicing No less than, at the god-given dewy-comfort, The sown-stuff in its birth-throes from the calyx. Since so these things are, — Argives, my revered here, — Ye may rejoice — if ye rejoice: but I — boast! If it were fit on corpse to pour libation,