Could wing thy faith beyond the reach of sense,
That thou didst seem to see me! Take the lock,
And match it nicely with this mother crop
That bore it. More; behold this web,[n20] the fruit
Of thine own toil, the strokes of thine own shuttle,
The wild beasts of the woods by thine own hand
Empictured! Nay, be calm, and keep thy joy
Within wise bounds. Too well I know that they
Who should be friends here are our bitterest foes.
Electra.