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Most like it is unto the curls he wore.

Yet how dared he to come unto his home?

He hath but sent it, clipt to mourn his sire.

It is a sorrow grievous as his death,

That he should live yet never dare return.

Yea, and my heart o'erflows with gall of grief,

And I am pierced as with a cleaving dart;

Like to the first drops after drought, my tears

Fall down at will, a bitter bursting tide,

As on this lock I gaze; I cannot deem

That any Argive save Orestes' self

Was ever lord thereof; nor, well I wot,

Hath she, the murd'ress, shorn and laid this lock

To mourn him whom she slew—my mother she,

Bearing no mother's heart, but to her race

A loathing spirit, loathed itself of heaven!

Yet to affirm, as utterly made sure,

That this adornment cometh of the hand

Of mine Orestes, brother of my soul,

I may not venture, yet hope flatters fair!

Ah well-a-day, that this dumb hair had voice

To glad mine ears, as might a messenger,

Bidding me sway no more 'twixt fear and hope,

Clearly commanding, Cast me hence away,

Clipped was I from some head thou lovest not;