Bread hath he; but a man is weak
In exile.

ELECTRA.

What charge laid he on thee? Speak.

ORESTES.

To learn if thou still live, and how the storm,
Living, hath struck thee.

ELECTRA.

That thou seest; this form
Wasted...

ORESTES.

Yea, riven with the fire of woe.
I sigh to look on thee.

ELECTRA.

My face; and, lo,
My temples of their ancient glory shorn.

ORESTES.

Methinks thy brother haunts thee, being forlorn;