Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/192

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Hark! Hark! again!

How is't? What's wrought within?

Stand we aloof while Slaughter does her work,

That of these ills we guiltless may appear:

For now achieved the issue is of strife.

Oh woe! oh grievous woe! our master's slain;

Yet once again, and for the third time, woe.

Ægisthos is no more.—With utmost speed

Fling open now, and of the women's doors,

The bars unloose; full strength is needed here,

Not for the slain; what booteth aid to him?

Alas! alas! what, shout I to the deaf,

Or clamour vainly in dull sleepers' ears?

What doeth Clytemnestra? Where is she?

Her neck it seems toucheth the razor's edge;

Herself, ere long shall perish, justly slain.

What is't? What tumult raise ye in the house?

The dead, I tell you, now the living slays.