 | Agamemnon |  |
27
SCENE VI.
Egisthus.
Now go thy way, weak open-hearted Man,
Thus to declare the Ruin thou intendest.
Go, rate thy Trojan Slaves; and elsewhere practise
This Insolence of Camps. Tame, as I seem,
Submissive, mild, and patient of thy Threats,
Yet, ere to-morrow's Sun beholds Mycenæ,
My sure-aim'd Blow shall pierce thy swelling Heart,
And cool this Tyrant's Fever in thy Veins.
Were not our Blood our Kindred Blood at variance,
And therefore burning with immortal Hate:
Had not thy Father Atreus, at a Banquet,
A dreadful Banquet! from whose Sight the Sun
Turn'd back eclips'd, serv'd—Monstrous!—up to mine,
To his own Brother, to the pale Thyestes,
His murder'd Sons: didst thou not wear a Crown
Then by thy Father ravish'd from our Line,
Mycenæ's Crown, which he unjustly seiz'd,
And added to his own, to that of Argos:
Had I not stain'd thy Bed with Clytemnestra:
Tho' Safety did not urge, and Self-defence:
Yet this vile Treatment, Treatment fit for Slaves;
Thanks to thy Fury! this has fix'd thy Doom.
Some foolish Scruples, that still hung about me,
Are by this friendly Tempest blown away.—
Thus to declare the Ruin thou intendest.
Go, rate thy Trojan Slaves; and elsewhere practise
This Insolence of Camps. Tame, as I seem,
Submissive, mild, and patient of thy Threats,
Yet, ere to-morrow's Sun beholds Mycenæ,
My sure-aim'd Blow shall pierce thy swelling Heart,
And cool this Tyrant's Fever in thy Veins.
Were not our Blood our Kindred Blood at variance,
And therefore burning with immortal Hate:
Had not thy Father Atreus, at a Banquet,
A dreadful Banquet! from whose Sight the Sun
Turn'd back eclips'd, serv'd—Monstrous!—up to mine,
To his own Brother, to the pale Thyestes,
His murder'd Sons: didst thou not wear a Crown
Then by thy Father ravish'd from our Line,
Mycenæ's Crown, which he unjustly seiz'd,
And added to his own, to that of Argos:
Had I not stain'd thy Bed with Clytemnestra:
Tho' Safety did not urge, and Self-defence:
Yet this vile Treatment, Treatment fit for Slaves;
Thanks to thy Fury! this has fix'd thy Doom.
Some foolish Scruples, that still hung about me,
Are by this friendly Tempest blown away.—
But Clytemnestra comes. How shall I calm
Her troubled Mind? How bring her to my Purpose?
Her troubled Mind? How bring her to my Purpose?
| Agamemnon | |