To speech ill-starred, nor vent ill-boding words—
Who hast to Argos her full freedom given,
Lopping two serpents' heads with timely blow.
Orestes.
Look, look, alas!
Handmaidens, see—what Gorgon shapes throng up!
Dusky their robes and all their hair enwound—
Snakes coiled with snakes—off, off,—I must away!
Chorus.
Most loyal of all sons unto thy sire,
What visions thus distract thee? Hold, abide;
Great was thy victory, and shalt thou fear?
Orestes.
These are no dreams, void shapes of haunting ill,
But clear to sight my mother's hell-hounds come!
Chorus.
Nay, the fresh bloodshed still imbrues thine hands,
And thence distraction sinks into thy soul.
Orestes.
O King Apollo—see, they swarm and throng—
Black blood of hatred dripping from their eyes!
Chorus.
One remedy thou hast; go, touch the shrine
Of Loxias, and rid thee of these woes.
Orestes.
Ye can behold them not, but I behold them.
Up and away! I dare abide no more.
