Whoe'er ye be, and one without a tear.
'Tis true: I know by mine own evil will:
One long in pain, if things more suffering still
Fall to his hand, will hate them for his own
Torment ... And no great wind hath ever blown,
No ship from God hath passed the Clashing Gate,
To bring me Helen, who hath earned my hate,
And Menelaus, till I mocked their prayers
In this new Aulis, that is mine, not theirs:
Where Greek hands held me lifted, like a beast
For slaughter, and my throat bled. And the priest
My father! ... Not one pang have I forgot.
Ah me, the blind half-prisoned arms I shot
This way and that, to find his beard, his knees,
Groping and wondering: "Father, what are these
For bridal rites? My mother even now
Mid Argive women sings for me, whom thou ...
What dost thou? She sings happy songs, and all
Is dance and sound of piping in the hall;
And here ... Is he a vampyre, is he one
That fattens on the dead, thy Peleus' son--
Whose passion shaken like a torch before
My leaping chariot, lured me to this shore
To wed--"
Ah me! And I had hid my face,
Burning, behind my veil. I would not press
Orestes to my arms ... who now is slain! ...
I would not kiss my sister's lips again,
For shame and fulness of the heart to meet
My bridegroom. All my kisses, all my sweet