A rumour strange, by certain strangers brought,
No pleasant tale—Orestes’ death. In sooth,
A heavy fear-distilling sorrow this,
More than a house may bear, whose wounds yet bleed,
And ulcerate from the fangs of fate. But say,
Is this a fact that looks us in the face,
Or startling words of woman’s fears begotten,
That shoot like meteors through the air, and die?
What proof, ye maids, what proof?
Chorus.