Orestes.
So shall the rightful feasts that mortals pay
Be set for thee; else, not for thee shall rise
The scented reek of altars fed with flesh,
But thou shalt lie dishonoured: hear thou me!
Electra.
I too, from my full heritage restored,
Will pour the lustral streams, what time I pass
Forth as a bride from these paternal halls,
And honour first, beyond all graves, thy tomb.
Orestes.
Earth, send my sire to fend me in the fight!
Electra.
Give fair-faced fortune, O Persephone!
Orestes.
Bethink thee, father, in the laver slain
Electra.
Bethink thee of the net they handselled for thee!
Orestes.
Bonds not of brass ensnared thee, father mine.
Electra.
Yea, the ill craft of an enfolding robe.
Orestes.
By this our bitter speech arise, O sire!
