Of this loved lock; and from my thirsty eyne
With troubled overflowings unrestrained
The full tide gushes: for none here would dare
To gift a lock to Agamemnon’s grave;
No citizen, much less the wife that slew him.
My mother most unmotherly, her own children
With godless hate pursuing, evil-minded:
And though to think this wandering lock have graced
My brother’s head—even his—my loved Orestes,
Were bliss too great, yet will I hold the hope.