I tread the purple to my father’s hall.
Clytemnestra.
The wide sea flows; and who shall dry it up?
The ocean flows, and in its vasty depths
Is brewed the purple’s die, as silver precious,
A tincture ever-fresh for countless robes.
But Agamemnon’s house is not a beggar;
With this, and with much more the gods provide us;
And purple I had vowed enough to spread
The path of many triumphs, had a god