Chorus.
'Tis but the scent of victims at the hearth.
Cassandra.
Nay, but such breath as issues from a tomb.
Chorus.
No Syrian odour tell'st thou for the house.
Cassandra.
Well! I will go, within these palace halls
To wail mine own and Agamemnon's doom.
Enough of life! Strangers! Alas! Alas!
Yet quail I not, as birdé at the brake,
Idly; in death my vouchers be in this,
When, in my place, woman for woman dies,
And when for man ill-wedded, man shall fall. 1290
Dying, this hospitable grace I crave.
Chorus.
Poor wretch; Thy fateful doom my pity moves.
Cassandra.
Once more I fain would speak, but not to pour
Mine own funereal wail; but to the Sun,
Looking my last upon his beams, I pray
That my avengers pay my murderers back,
Requiting me, poor slave, their easy prey.
Alas, for man's estate! If Fortune smile,
A shadow may o'erturn it; should she frown,
