I sailed,—as heaven-frenzied I did sail,—
I have seen not: now left lorn I wail our lot.80
Electra.
Helen, why tell thee what thyself mayst see—
The piteous plight of Agamemnon's son?
Sleepless I sit beside a wretched corpse;
For, but for faintest breath, a corpse he is.
His evils—I reproach him not with them.[1]85
But prosperous thou art come, and prosperous comes
Thy lord, to us the misery-stricken ones.
Helen.
How long hath he so lain upon his couch?
Electra.
Even since he spilt the blood of her that bare him.
Helen.
Ah wretch!—ah mother, what a death she died!90
Electra.
Such is his plight that he is crushed of ills.
Helen.
In heaven's name, maiden, do to me a grace.
Electra.
So far as this my tendance suffereth me.
Helen.
Wilt go for me unto my sister's tomb?
