Their father’s prey. So we before thee stand,
Myself and this Electra, sire-bereaved,
And exiles both from our paternal roof.
If we, the chickens of the pious father
That crowned thee with much sacrifice, shall fail,
Where shalt thou find a hand like his, to offer
Gifts from the steaming banquet? If the brood
Of the eagle perish, where shall be thy signs,
That speak from Heaven persuasive to mankind?
If all this royal trunk shall rot, say who,