University of Virginia Library

SCENE THE SEVENTH.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
sola.
Whither shall I—but 'tis no matter whither—
My torments cling too close to be shook off—
And for the rest—'tis all beneath regard.
[Shouting behind.
Hark!—Whence that clam'rous joy!—Some dire mishap
Befalls my children!—In my bosom sheathe
Your sacrilegious swords, ye sons of slaughter,
But spare the wrong'd—O spare the innocent.