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, That would be right — right over and above, too! The cup of evils in the house he, having Filled with such curses, himself coming drinks of. CHOROS. We wonder at thy tongue: since bold-mouthed truly Is she who in such speech boasts o’er her husband I KLUTAIMNESTRA. Ye test me as I were a witless woman: But I — with heart intrepid — to you knowers Say (and thou — if thou wilt or praise or blame me, Comes to the same) — this man is Agamemnon, My husband, dead, the work of the right hand here, Ay, of a just artificer: so things are. CHOROS. What evil, O woman, food or drink, earth-bred Or sent from the flowing sea, Of such having fed Didst thou set on thee This sacrifice