As it behoved to be, contented if the dread god add no more,
He that now the house of Pelops smiteth in his anger dire.
Thus a woman’s word doth warn ye, if that ye have wit to hear.
Ægisthus.
Babbling fools are they; and I forsooth must meekly bear the shower,
Flowers of contumely east from doting drivellers, tempting fate!
O! if length of hoary winters brought discretion, ye should know
Where the power is; wisely subject you the weak to me the strong.
Chorus.
Ill beseems our Argive mettle to court a coward on a throne.