To one of shameful birth death is a boon.
[Enter Clytemnestra.]
Thou comrade of my perils, Leda's child,
Be with me still in this; and thy false lord,235
This valiant sire, shall pay thee blood for blood.
But why does pallor blanch thy trembling cheeks?
What bodes this softened face, this listless gaze?
Clytemnestra: My husband's love has met and conquered me.
Let us retrace our steps, while still there's room,240
To that estate whence we should ne'er have come;