Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/177

 O chariot-race of Pelops old,

The source of sorrows manifold,

What endless curse hath fallen on us

Since to his sea-grave Myrtilus

Sank from the golden chariot hurled;

Woe upon woe, of woes a world.

Enter.

So once again I find thee here at large,

For he who kept thee close and so restrained

Thy scandalous tongue, Aegisthus, is away;

Yet thy complaints, repeated many a time

To many, censured my tyrannic rule—

The insults that I heaped on thee and thine.

Was it an insult if I paid in kind

The flouts and taunts wherewith thou girdest at me?

Thy father, the sole pretext of thy grief,

Died by my hand, aye mine, I know it well,

’Tis true beyond denial; yet not I,

Not I alone, but Justice slew him too:

And thou shouldst side with Justice, wert thou wise.

This sire of thine for whom thy tears still flow

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