The whole grove lets its riches down,
And flaunts them in his face, soft fruits
On drooping boughs, and whets once more
His hunger, bidding stretch again 165
His hands—but all in vain. For now,
When it has lured him on to hope,
And mocked its fill, the boughs recede,
And the whole ripe harvest of the wood
Is snatched far out of reach.
Then comes a raging thirst more fierce
Than hunger, which inflames his blood, 170
And with its parching fires burns up
Its moisture. There the poor wretch stands,
Striving to quaff the nearby waves;
But the fleeing waters whirl away,
And leave but the empty bed to him
Who seeks to follow. Quick he quaffs
At that swift stream, but to drink—the dust. 175
ACT II
Atreus [in soliloquy]: O soul, so sluggish, spiritless, and weak,
And (what in kings I deem the last reproach)
Still unavenged, after so many crimes,
Thy brother's treacheries, and every law
Of nature set at naught, canst vent thy wrath
In vain and meaningless complaints? By now
The whole wide world should be astir with arms, 180
Thy arms, and on both seas thy ships of war
Should swarm; the fields and towns should be ablaze,
And gleaming swords should everywhere be seen.
Beneath our charging squadrons' thundering tread
Let Greece resound; let this my enemy
Within no forest's depths a hiding find. 185
No citadel upon the mountain heights
Shall shelter him. Let all the citizens,
Mycenae leaving, sound the trump of war.
Whoe'er grants refuge to that cursed head.
Shall die a dreadful death. This noble pile,
The home of our illustrious Pelops' line, 190
