To forecast woe, which, on no wavering wing,[n28]
The burthen’d hour shall bring.
But we, a chosen band,
Left here sole guardians of the Apian land,[f14]
Pray Heaven, all good betide!
Enter Clytemnestra.
Chorus.
Hail Clytemnestra! honour to thy sceptre!
When her lord’s throne is vacant, the wife claims
His honour meetly. Queen, if thou hast heard