Woe, earth, earth — would thou hadst taken meEre I saw the man I see,On the pallet-bedOf the silver-sided bath-vase, dead!Who is it shall bury him, whoSing his dirge? Can it be trueThat thou wilt dare this same to do —Having slain thy husband, thine own,To make his funeral moan:And for the soul of him, in placeOf his mighty deeds, a graceless graceTo wickedly institute? By whomShall the tale of praise o’er the tombAt the god-like man be sent —From the truth of his mind as he toils intent? KLUTAIMNESTRA.It belongs not to thee to declare