Unkind, to scoff at my calamities!
Orestes.
To scoff at thine, were scoffing at mine own.
Electra.
And can it be? Art thou indeed Orestes?
Orestes.
My bodily self thou seest, and dost not know!
And yet the votive lock shorn from my head,
Being to thine, my sister’s hair, conform,
And my foot’s print with curious ardour scanned,