Comes to the same) — this man is Agamemnon,My husband, dead, the work of the right hand here,Ay, of a just artificer: so things are.

CHOROS.What evil, O woman, food or drink, earth-bredOr sent from the flowing sea,Of such having fedDidst thou set on theeThis sacrificeAnd popular criesOf a curse on thy head?Off thou hast thrown him, off hast cutThe man from the city: but —Off from the city thyself shalt beCut — to the citizensA hate immense! KLUTAIMNESTRA.Now, indeed, thou adjudgest exile to me,