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-groundZeus, guardian of the dead — the votive favour.Thus in the mind of him he rages, falling,And blowing forth a brisk blood-spatter, strikes meWith the dark drop of slaughterous dew — rejoicingNo 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, havingFilled with such curses, himself coming drinks of.CHOROS.We wonder at thy tongue: since bold-mouthed trulyIs she who in such speech boasts o’er her husband IKLUTAIMNESTRA.Ye test me as I were a witless woman:But I — with heart intrepid — to you knowersSay (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-bredOr sent from the flowing sea,Of such having fedDidst thou set on theeThis sacrifice