Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/131

Rh Such goblet having filled with cursed ills

At home,—himself on his return drains off.

We marvel at thy tongue, how bold thy speech,

Who o'er thy husband makest so thy vaunt.

As witless woman are ye proving me;

But I with steadfast heart, to you who know,

Proclaim,—and whether ye will praise or blame,

It recks me not,—this man is Agamemnon,—

My husband, dead, the work of this right hand,

Doer of righteous deed;—so stands the case.

O woman, what earth-nurtured bane,

What potion, upsent from the wind-ruffled sea,

Hast tasted, that on thine own head dost heap

Curses, for incense, folk-mutter'd and deep!

Hast cast off, hast slain;—

Out-cast, uncitied, thyself shalt be,

Huge hate of the townsmen blasting thee.

Me thou dost doom to exile,—to endure

The people's hate, their curse deep-muttered,—thou,

Who 'gainst this man of yore hadst naught to urge.

He, all unmoved, as though brute life he quenched,

The while his fleecy pastures teem'd with flocks,