Capitolo 58
CHOIR
Children of Or, saviors of the house of Your father,
Is in watch ye of Your words, so that not one should feel
And it bears them, for the lust of hath of language to say,
To our masters--who God concession to me
In pitchy exhale of flame of fun'ral to see!
ORESTES
No, mighty it is the oracle of Apollo
And it won't fail me, who offered to pass
Thro this whole danger; clear the voice encircled out
With many warnings, threatening austerely
To my warm heart the winter cold of the pain,
Above my sire's slayers
I pressed for revenge: this the command of the god--
What me, in anger for house and wealth stolen,
Owes with an art as theirs that the slayerses kill:
Other with a lot of life my self I should make fine
This suppressed action the effect of a change, in very a horrible wise man
For him it proclaimed to the ears of men
Those offers, versed to the angry power of death,
You transude again, unless their wish is done,
How surly illness on those that have poured them before--
How leprous ulcers that climb on on the meat
And with fangs of skin that corrode that that of old man
Brought the natural form; and on the eyebrow rises
White poisoned hair the crown of this illness.
Him the spake besides to attack demons
Conferred powers to end on me the blood of my father,
Discharging their anger on me, that night of time in
Under of closed covers the eye of the spirit sees in clear way.
The dart that flies in obscurity, hell sped
From spirits of the murdered dead who call
To their log for revenge, amorphous fear,
The visitor of the night-tide and the madness' the curse
You/he/she should drive and framework me; and my tortured frame
You/he/she should be pursued ahead by the community of man
As with the similar Scorpios to brass of the scourge.
For me and as me any bowl of lustral
You/he/she should be standing, any spilths of wine is versed to God
For me and anger not seen of my dead sire
You/he/she should drive me from the shrine; any men should challenge
To bring me to his/her hearth, neither it indulges with me:
Slow, without friends, accursed of mine should be elegant,