1630
Chor. Thou talkest of thy death; we hail the word;
And make our own the fortune it implies.
Clytæm. Nay, let us not do other evil deeds,
Thou dearest of all friends. An ill-starred harvest
It is to have reaped so many. Enough of woe:
Let no more blood be shed: Go thou—[to the Chorus]—go ye,
Ye aged sires, to your allotted homes,
Ere ye do aught amiss and dree your weird:
[*]This that we have done ought to have sufficed;