And popular cries Of a curse on thy head? Off thou hast thrown him, off hast cut The man from the city: but — Off from the city thyself shalt be Cut — to the citizens A hate immense!
 KLUTAIMNESTRA. Now, indeed, thou adjudgest exile to me, And citizens’ hate, and to have popular curses: Nothing of this against the man here bringing, Who, no more awe-checked than as ’t were a beast’s fate, — With sheep abundant in the well-fleeced graze-flocks, — Sacrificed his child, — dearest fruit of travail To me, — as song-spell against Threkian blowings. Not him did it behove thee hence to banish — Pollution’s penalty? But hearing mzy deeds Justicer rough thou art! Now, this I tell thee: To threaten thus — me, one prepared to have thee (On like conditions, thy hand conquering) o’er me Rule: but if God the opposite ordain us, Thou shalt learn — late taught, certes — to be modest.
 CHOROS. Greatly-intending thou art: Much-mindful, too, hast thou cried (Since thy mind, with its slaughter-outpouring part, Is frantic) that over the eyes, a patch Of blood — with blood to match — Is plain for a pride! Yet still, bereft of friends, thy fate Is — blow with blow to expiate! KLUTAIMNESTRA. And this thou hearest — of my oaths, just warrant!