She softens all too late her cureless deed?
An idle boon it was, to send them here
Unto the dead who recks not of such gifts.
I cannot guess her thought, but well I ween
Such gifts are skilless to atone such crime.
Be blood once spilled, an idle strife he strives
Who seeks with other wealth or wine outpoured
To atone the deed. So stands the word nor fails.
Yet would I know her thought; speak, if thou knowest.
Chorus.
I know it, son; for at her side I stood.
'Twas the night-wandering terror of a dream
That flung her shivering from her couch, and bade her—
Her, the accursed of God—these offerings send.
Orestes.
Heard ye the dream, to tell it forth aright?
Chorus.
Yea, from herself; her womb a serpent bare.
Orestes.
What then the sum and issue of the tale?
Chorus.
Even as a swaddled child, she lull'd the thing.
Orestes.
What suckling craved the creature, born full-fanged?
Chorus.
Yet in her dreams she proffered it the breast.
