Capitolo 47
What poison grown of the earth
Or draught of the sea that goes adrift
Way to hath of lips of found thy,
Thees that do dress heart of thy
In anger, yea, in the curses to burn
When thine that his/her own people pray?
You cut hast, you hasts threw away;
And a throw of thing street you the art,
A thing of I hate and a spurning!
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Yes, now for me, you hast thy puts in words of the fate;
Exiles from Argos and the hate of the people
For never! Against him any word cries,
When, recking not, as 'the twere a beast that is dead,
With raw that o'ers abound its wide dominion,
Him killed his/her child, my love, my flower of the pain...
God Gran as magic for the winds of Thrace!
Because it was not him it man-chased from his/her place,
To eliminate the blood that him? ... When the action
Be mine, oh, then you the art a judge indeed!
But filling of thy of threat. I am ready, and I am standing
Contained; if thies give down beateth my hand,
You the rulest. If other aught were the deliberation of God,
Thy gives a lesson to you/he/she will be learned, although late it is.
CHOIR.
Thy thought, it is very proud;
The breath of Thy is the breath of the scorner;
It is not the noise of madness
In heart of thy, being drunk with death?
Yea, and above of eyebrow of thy
A star of the burneth of the wet blood!
Oh, decree will still have its day,
The last friend threw away,
When doth lies they answer to lie
And a stab for a returneth of the stab!
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Be heark what the Oath-god gathers to my side!
From the Revenge of my dead child, it now satisfied,
From Deadly Blindness, from all the Powers of Hell
What Hate, to whom in sacrifice he fell,
My Hope won't walk in the house of Fear,
While on my hearth a burneth they still shoot in clear way,
A person in love, an Aigisthos as of old man!
What I should fear, when fallen here me I hold
This enemy, this scorner of his/her wife, this toy
It is foolish of every Chryseis under Troy;
And there the withal his/her diviner and enslaved,
His/her bed-individual that sings psalms, his/her brave of leman,
Who rubbed the benches of the helmets to his/her side.