ELEC. St! st! Speak to me, my friend, as the breathing of the soft reed pipe.
CHOR. See, I utter a voice low as an under note.
ELEC. Ay, thus come hither, come hither, approach quietly—go quietly: tell me, for what purpose, I pray, are ye come? For he has fallen on his couch, and been sleeping some time.
CHOR. How is he? Give us an account of him, my friend.
ELEC. What fortune can I say of him? and what his calamities? still indeed he breathes, but sighs at short intervals.
CHOR. What sayest thou? Oh, the unhappy man!
ELEC. You will kill him if you move his eyelids, now that he is taking the sweetest enjoyment of sleep.
CHOR. Unfortunate on account of these most angry deeds from heaven! oh! wretched on account of thy sufferings!
ELEC. Alas! alas! Apollo himself unjust, then spoke unjust things, when at the tripod of Themis he commanded the unhallowed, inauspicious murder of my mother.
CHOR. Dost thou see? he moves his body in the robes that cover him.