On these rich dyes? I hold such pride in fear,
And bid thee honour me as man, not god.
Fear not—such footcloths and all gauds apart,
Loud from the trump of Fame my name is blown:
Best gift of heaven it is, in glory's hour,
To think thereon with soberness: and thou—
Bethink thee of the adage, Call none blest
Till peaceful death have crowned a life of weal.
'Tis said[1]: I fain would fare unvexed by fear.
Clytemnestra.
Nay, but unsay it—thwart not thou my will!
Agamemnon.
Know, I have said, and will not mar my word.
Clytemnestra.
Was it fear made this meekness to the gods?
Agamemnon.
If cause be cause, 'tis mine for this resolve.
Clytemnestra.
What, think'st thou, in thy place had Priam done?
Agamemnon.
He surely would walked on broidered robes.
Clytemnestra.
Then fear not thou the voice of human blame.
Agamemnon.
Yet mighty is the murmur of a crowd.
