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, shredTo morsels, lies the spear-shaft; in those grimMarriage-prolusions when their Fury wedDanaoi 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 outThe drops of expiation — no, nor tears distilled —Shall he we know of bring the hard aboutTo soft — that intense ireAt those mock rites unsanctified by fire.But we pay nought here: through our flesh, age-weighed,Left out from who gave aidIn that day, — we remain,Staying on staves a strengthThe 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 placeIn either: but in oldest age’s case,Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his wayOn 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, everywhereSettest thou, round about, the sacrifice a-flare?For, of all gods the city-swaying,