For since the gods laid constraining doom about my city and led me from my father’s house to a slave’s lot, it is fitting for me to govern my bitter hate, even against my will, and submit to the wishes of my masters, whether just or unjust.But I weep beneath my veil over the senseless fate of my lord, my heart chilled by secret grief.

ElectraYou handmaidens who set our house in order, since you are here as my attendants in this rite of supplication,give me your counsel on this: what should I say while I pour these offerings of sorrow? How shall I find gracious words, how shall I entreat my father? Shall I say that I bring these offerings to a loved husband from a lovingwife—from my own mother? I do not have the assurance for that, nor do I know what I should say as I pour this libation onto my father’s tomb. Or shall I speak the words that men are accustomed to use: To those who send these honors may he return benefits—