Clytemnestra

Now hear me, for my thoughts will I unfold In no obscure and coloured mode of speech. First then, for first with this will I upbraid thee, Me didst thou wed against my will, and seize By force; my former husband Tantalus By thee was slain. By thee my infant son, Torn from my breast by violence, was whirled And dashed against the ground. The sons of Jove, My brothers, glitt'ring on their steeds in arms Advanced against thee; but old Tyndarus, My father, saved thee, at his knees become A supplicant; and hence didst thou obtain My bed. To thee and to thy house my thoughts Thus reconciled, thou shalt thyself attest How irreproachable a wife I was, How chaste, with what attention I increased The splendour of thy house, that ent'ring there Thou hadst delight, and going out, with thee Went happiness along. A wife like this Is a rare prize; the worthless are not rare. Three daughters have I borne thee, and this son. Of one of these wilt thou--O piercing grief!-- Deprive me. Should one ask thee, for what cause Thy daughter wilt thou kill, what wouldst thou say? Speak; or I must speak for thee! E'en for this, That Menelaus may regain Helena. Well would it be, if, for his wanton wife Our children made the price, what most we hate With what is dearest to us we redeem. But if thou lead the forces, leaving me At Argos, should thy absence then be long, Think what my heart must feel, when in the house I see the seats all vacant of my child, And her apartment vacant: I shall sit Alone, in tears, thus ever wailing her: "Thy father, O my child, hath slain thee; he That gave thee birth, hath killed thee, not another, Nor by another hand; this is the prize He left his house." But do not, by the gods, Do not compel me to be aught but good To thee, nor be thou aught but good to me; Since there will want a slight pretence alone For me, and for my daughters left at home, To welcome, as becomes us, thy return. Well, thou wilt sacrifice thy child: what vows Wilt thou then form? what blessing wilt thou ask To wait thee, thou, who dost thy daughter slay-- Thou, who with shame to this unlucky war Art marching? Is it just that I should pray For aught of good to thee? Should I not deem The gods unwise, if they their favours shower On those who stain their willing hands with blood? Wilt thou, to Argos when returned, embrace Thy children? But thou hast no right: thy face Which of thy children will behold, if one With cool deliberate purpose thou shalt kill? Now to this point I come: if thee alone To bear the sceptre, thee to lead the troops Th' occasion called, shouldst thou not thus have urged Thy just appeal to Greece: "Is it your will, Ye Grecians, to the Phrygian shores to sail? Cast then the lot whose daughter must be slain." This had at least been equal; nor hadst thou Been singled out from all to give thy child A victim for the Greeks. Or Menelaus, Whose cause this is, should for the mother slay Hermione: but I, who to thy bed Am faithful, of my child shall be deprived, And she, that hath misdone, at her return To Sparta her young daughter shall bear back, And thus be happy. Aught if I have said Amiss, reply to that: but if my words Speak nought but sober reason, do not slay Thy child, and mine: and thus thou wilt be wise.