A moistened sponge the picture doth destroy. 1300
More than the first this doom my pity moves.
Chorus.
All are of boundless weal insatiate;—
None warneth from his halls
Him at whom Envy points, as rich or great,
Saying, "Come here no more."—
So to this man the Blessed Ones have given
To capture Priam's walls;—
Home he returns, beloved of Heaven;—
But must he now the blood repay
Of ancient murder; must he die,
And dying expiate, 1310
With his own death, their deaths who died of yore;
Who, being mortal, this can hear, nor pray,
That he were born to scathless destiny?
Agamemnon.
[In the palace.
Woe's me! I'm smitten with a deadly blow!
Chorus.
Hush! Wounded unto death; who lifts this cry.
Agamemnon.
Woe's me! Again! a second time I'm struck.
Choraphæus.
By the groaning of the monarch, wrought methinks is now the deed;
But together taking counsel, weave we now some prudent scheme.
