I may say truly, now, that men’s avengers,The gods from high, of earth behold the sorrows —Seeing, as I have, i’ the spun robes of the Erinues,This man here lying, — sight to me how pleasant! —His father’s hands’ contrivances repaying.For Atreus, this land’s lord, of this man father,Thuestes, my own father — to speak clearly —His brother too, — being i’ the rule contested, —Drove forth to exile from both town and household:And, coming back, to the hearth turned, a suppliant,Wretched Thuestes found the fate assured him— Not to die, bloodying his paternal thresholdJust there: but host-wise this man’s impious fatherAtreus, soul-keenly more than kindly, — seemingTo joyous hold a flesh-day, — to my fatherServed up a meal, the flesh of his own children.