Eumenides.
169
Chorus.
Good: having slain thy mother, trust the dead!
Orestes.
Polluted was she with a twofold stain. 570
Chorus.
How! To the jurors make the matter clear.
Orestes.
Slaying her husband, she my father slew.
Chorus.
But thou art living,—she through death is free.
Orestes.
Her while she lived, why didst thou not pursue?
Chorus.
Not of one blood was she with him she slew.
Orestes.
But am I with my mother one in blood?
Chorus.
Thee 'neath her zone she nourished;—blood-stained wretch,
A mother's dearest blood dost thou disown?
Orestes.
Now bear me witness and expound for me,
Apollo, whether I with justice slew. 580
