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122 To him laid low for ever. Help, help, help!

Sure to deaf ears I shout, and call in vain

To slumber ineffectual. What ho!

The queen! how fareth Clytemnestra's self?

Her neck too, hers, is close upon the steel,

And soon shall sink, hewn thro' as justice wills.

[Enter Clytemnestra.

What ails thee, raising this ado for us?

I say the dead are come to slay the living.

Alack, I read thy riddles all too clear—

We slew by craft and by like craft shall die.

Swift, bring the axe that slew my lord of old;

I'll know anon or death or victory—

So stands the curse, so I confront it here.

[Enter Orestes, his sword dropping with blood.

Thee too I seek: for him what's done will serve.

Woe, woe! Ægisthus, spouse and champion, slain!

What, lov'st the man? then in his grave lie down,

Be his in death, desert him nevermore!

Stay, child, and fear to strike. O son, this breast