Life's pathway unheeded and unrenowned:
But little I envy the high in place.
Old Servant.
Yet the life of these is glory-crowned. 20
Agamemnon.
Ah, still with the glory is peril bound.
Sweetly ambition tempteth, I trow;
Yet is it neighbour to sore disquiet.
For the Gods' will clasheth with thy will now,
Wrecking thy life: by men that riot
With divers desires, whom ye cannot content,
Now is the web of thy life's work rent.
Old Servant.
Nay, in a king I love not this repining.
Atreus begat thee, Agamemnon, not
Only to bask in days all cloudless-shining: 30
Needs must be joy and sorrow in thy lot.
Mortal thou art: though marred be thy designing,
Still to fulfilment is the Gods' will brought.
Thou the star-glimmer of thy lamp hast litten,
Writest a letter—in thine hand yet grasped,—
Then thou erasest that which thou hast written,
Sealest, and breakest bands as soon as clasped;
Castest to earth the pine-slip, ever streaming 40
Tears from thine eyes; nor lacketh anything
Of madness in thy gestures aimless-seeming.
What is thy grief, thy strange affliction, king?
