Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/127

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'Tis but the scent of victims at the hearth.

Nay, but such breath as issues from a tomb.

No Syrian odour tell'st thou for the house.

Well! I will go, within these palace halls

To wail mine own and Agamemnon's doom.

Enough of life! Strangers! Alas! Alas!

Yet quail I not, as birdé at the brake,

Idly; in death my vouchers be in this,

When, in my place, woman for woman dies,

And when for man ill-wedded, man shall fall.

Dying, this hospitable grace I crave.

Poor wretch; Thy fateful doom my pity moves.

Once more I fain would speak, but not to pour

Mine own funereal wail; but to the Sun,

Looking my last upon his beams, I pray

That my avengers pay my murderers back,

Requiting me, poor slave, their easy prey.

Alas, for man's estate! If Fortune smile,

A shadow may o'erturn it; should she frown,