Of Atreus: for that wife, the many-husbanded, Appointing many a tug that tries the limb, While the knee plays the prop in dust, while, shred To morsels, lies the spear-shaft; in those grim Marriage-prolusions when their Fury wed Danaoi and Troes, both alike. All’s said: Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed, So shall they be fulfilled. Not gently-grieving, not just doling out The drops of expiation — no, nor tears distilled — Shall he we know of bring the hard about To soft — that intense ire At those mock rites unsanctified by fire. But we pay nought here: through our flesh, age-weighed, Left out from who gave aid In that day, — we remain, Staying on staves a strength The equal of a child’s at length. For when young marrow in the breast doth reign, That’s the old man’s match, — Ares out of place In either: but in oldest age’s case, Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his way On three feet, and, no stronger than a child, Wanders about gone wild, A dream in day.
 But thou, Tundareus’ daughter, Klutaimnestra queen, What need? What new? What having heard or seen, By what announcement’s tidings, everywhere Settest thou, round about, the sacrifice a-flare? For, of all gods the city-swaying,