Clytemnestra.
Thy dream scents blood; and, like a dog that doth
In dreams pursue the chase, even so dost thou
At phantasms bark and howl. To work! to work!
Let not fatigue o’ermaster thus thy strength,
Nor slumber soothe the sense of sharpest wrong.
Torture thy liver with reproachful thoughts;
Reproaches are the pricks that goad the wise.
Up! blow a blast of bloody breath behind him!
Dry up his marrow with the fiery vengeance!