Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/261



O horror!

Why dost start? is the face strange?

Who spread the net wherein, O woe is me,

I lie enmeshed?

Hast thou not learnt ere this

The dead of whom thou spakest are alive?

Alas! I read thy riddle; ’tis none else

Than thou, Orestes, whom I now address.

A seer so wise, and yet befooled so long!

O I am spoiled, undone! yet suffer me,

One little word.

Brother, in heaven’s name

Let him not speak a word or plead his cause.

When a poor wretch is in the toils of fate

What can a brief reprieve avail him? No,

Slay him outright and having slain him give

His corse to such grave-makers as is meet,

Far from our sight; for me no otherwise

Can he wipe out the memory of past wrongs.

Quick, get thee in; the issue lies not now

In words; the case is tried and thou must die. 249