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Rh Without my helping hands

Chor. Oh, horror! horror!

Elec. Was buried with no sepulture from us,

Nor voice of wailing.

Chrys. In pure delight, dear sister, thus I rush,

My maiden grace abandoning, to come

With swiftest foot; for lo! I bring great joy

And respite from the ills thou long hast borne,

And still did'st wail.

Elec. And whence can'st thou have found

Help for my woes where healing there is none?

Chrys. Orestes comes at last. Count this as sure,

Hearing my words, as that thou see'st me here.

Elec. What! Art thou mad, poor wretch, and so dost mock

At thine own sorrows, and at mine as well?

Chrys. Nay! By our father's hearth, I do not speak

These things in scorn, but say that he is come.

Elec. Ah, wretched me! And whose word is it then

That thou hast heard with such credulity?

Chrys. I, of myself, no other, clearest proof

Have seen, and therefore I believe this thing.

Elec. What hast thou seen, poor soul; what caught thy gaze,

That thou art fevered with this flameless fire?

Chrys. Now by the Gods! I pray thee, list to me,

That thou may'st know if I be sane or mad.

Elec. Tell then thy tale, if thou find joy in it.

Chrys. And I will tell each thing of all I saw;

For when I came where stands our father's tomb

Time-honoured, on the summit of the mound