Destiny doth Justice whet For other deed of hurt, on other whetstones yet.
 Woe, earth, earth — would thou hadst taken me Ere I saw the man I see, On the pallet-bed Of the silver-sided bath-vase, dead! Who is it shall bury him, who Sing his dirge? Can it be true That thou wilt dare this same to do — Having slain thy husband, thine own, To make his funeral moan: And for the soul of him, in place Of his mighty deeds, a graceless grace To wickedly institute? By whom Shall the tale of praise o’er the tomb At the god-like man be sent — From the truth of his mind as he toils intent?
 KLUTAIMNESTRA. It belongs not to thee to declare This object of care! By us did he fall — down there! Did he die — down there! and down, no less, We will bury him there, and not beneath The wails of the household over his death: But Iphigeneia, — with kindliness, — His daughter, — as the case requires, Facing him full, at the rapid-flowing Passage of Groans shall — both hands throwing Around him — kiss that kindest of sires!
 CHOROS. This blame comes in the place of blame: Hard battle it is to judge each claim.