Ay, and, for me, myself will dance a prelude,For, that my masters’ dice drop right, I’ll reckon:Since thrice-six has it thrown to me, this signal.Well, may it hap that, as he comes, the loved handO’ the household’s lord I may sustain with this hand!As for the rest, I’m mute: on tongue a big oxHas trodden. Yet this House, if voice it take should,Most plain would speak. So, willing I myself speakTo those who know: to who know not — I’m blankness. CHOROS.The tenth year this, since Priamos’ great match,King Menelaos, Agamemnon King,— The strenuous yoke-pair of the Atreidai’s honourTwo-throned, two-sceptred, whereof Zeus was donor —Did from this land the aid, the armament despatch,The thousand-sailored force of Argives clamouringAresfrom out the indignant breast, as flingPassion forth vultures which, because of griefAway, — as are their young ones, — with the thief,Lofty above their brood-nests wheel in ring,Row round and round with oar of either wing,Lament the bedded chicks, lost labour that was love:Which hearing, one above— Whether Apollon, Pan or Zeus — that wail,Sharp-piercing bird-shriek of the guests who fareHousemates with gods in air —Suchanone sends, against who these assail,What, late-sent, shall not failOf punishing — Erinus. Here as there,The Guardian of the Guest, Zeus, the excelling one,Sends against Alexandros either son