Even from the furrows’ yield for yearly useHas done away with famine, the disease; But blood of man to earth once falling-deadly, black —In times ere these, —Who may, by singing spells, call back?Zeus had not else stopped one who rightly knewThe way to bring the dead again.But, did not an appointed Fate constrainThe Fate from gods, to bear no more than due,My heart, outstripping what tongue utters,Would have all out: which now, in darkness, muttersMoodily grieved, nor ever hopes to findHow she a word in season may unwindFrom out the enkindling mind.

KLUTAIMNESTRA.Take thyself in, thou too — I say, Kassandra!Since Zeus — not angrily—in household placed thee