And, for a man ill-wived, a man shall perish!This hospitality I ask as dying.CHOROS.O sufferer, thee — thy foretold fate I pity.KASSANDRA.Yet once for all, to speak a speech, I fain am:No dirge, mine for myself! The sun I pray to,Fronting his last light! — to my own avengers —That from my hateful slayers they exact tooPay for the dead slave — easy-managed hand’s work!