There be within these vaults who know their task.

ORESTES.
My grave, when they have finished their desire?

IPHIGENIA.
A great gulf of the rock, and holy fire.

ORESTES.
Woe's me!
Would that my sister's hand could close mine eyes!

IPHIGENIA.
Alas, she dwelleth under distant skies,
Unhappy one, and vain is all thy prayer.
Yet, Oh, them art from Argos: all of care
That can be, I will give and fail thee not.
Rich raiment to thy burial shall be brought,
And oil to cool thy pyre in golden floods,
And sweet that from a thousand mountain buds
The murmuring bee hath garnered, I will throw
To die with thee in fragrance. ...
I must go
And seek the tablet from the Goddess' room
Within.--Oh, do not hate me for my doom!

Watch them, ye servitors, but leave them free.

It may be, past all hoping, it may be,
My word shall sail to Argos, to his hand