Thus in the mind of him he rages, falling,And blowing forth a brisk blood-spatter, strikes meWith the dark drop of slaughterous dew — rejoicingNo less than, at the god-given dewy-comfort,The sown-stuff in its birth-throes from the calyx.Since so these things are, — Argives, my revered here, —Ye may rejoice — if ye rejoice: but I — boast!If it were fit on corpse to pour libation,That would be right — right over and above, too!The cup of evils in the house he, havingFilled with such curses, himself coming drinks of.CHOROS.We wonder at thy tongue: since bold-mouthed trulyIs she who in such speech boasts o’er her husband IKLUTAIMNESTRA.Ye test me as I were a witless woman:But I — with heart intrepid — to you knowersSay (and thou — if thou wilt or praise or blame me,