Within no forest's depths a hiding find.185
No citadel upon the mountain heights
Shall shelter him. Let all the citizens,
Mycenae leaving, sound the trump of war.
Whoe'er grants refuge to that curséd head,
Shall die a dreadful death. This noble pile,
The home of our illustrious Pelops' line,190
I would might fall on me, if only thus
It might destroy my hated brother too.
But come, my soul, do what no coming age