A full-grown for the young one’s sacrifice. CHOROS.That no cause, indeed, of this killing art thou,Who shall be witness-bearer?How shall he bear it — how?But the sire’s avenging-ghost might be in the deed a sharer.He is forced on and onBy the kin-born flowing of blood,— Black Ares: to where, having gone,He shall leave off, flowing done,At the frozen-child’s-flesh food. King, king, how shall I beweep thee?From friendly soul whatever say?Thou liest where webs of the spider o’ersweep theeIn impious death, life breathing away.O me — me!This couch, not free!By a slavish death subdued thou art,From the hand, by the two-edged dart. KLUTAIMNESTRA.No death unfit for the freeDo I think this man’s to be:For did not himself a slavish curseTo his household decree?But the scion of him, myself did nurse —That much-bewailed Iphigeneia, heHaving done well by, — and as well, nor worse,Been done to, — let him not in Haides loudly