Nurse: O Grecian queen, illustrious Leda's child,125
What say'st thou there in whispered mutterings?
Or what unbridled deeds within thy breast,
By reckless passion tossed, dost meditate?
Though thou be silent, yet thy face declares
Thy hidden pain in speech more eloquent.
Whate'er thy grief, take time and room for thought.
Time often cures what reason cannot heal.130
Clytemnestra: Too dire my grief to wait time's healing hand.
My very soul is scorched with flaming pains: