IPHIGENEIA IN TAURICA.
225
Chorus.
To Orestes. (Str.)
I wail for thee, for whom there wait
The drops barbaric, on thy brow
To fall, to doom thee to be slain.
Orestes.
This asks not pity. Stranger maids, farewell.[1]
Chorus.
To Pylades. (Ant.)
Thee count I blessed for thy fate,
Thine happy fate, fair youth, that thou
Shalt tread thy native shore again.
Pylades.
Small cause to envy friends, when die their friends.650
Chorus.
Ah, cruel journeying for thee!
Woe! thou art ruined utterly!
Alas! woe worth the day!
Whether of you is deeper whelmed in woe?[2]
For yet my soul in doubt sways to and fro—
Thee shall I chiefly wail, or thee? How shall I say?
Orestes.
'Fore heaven, Pylades, is thy thought mine?—
Pylades.
I know not: this thy question baffles me.
