Aeschylus, Eumenides 299–396: First stasimon: the Furies' binding song

No, neither Apollo nor Athena’s strength can save you from perishing abandoned, not knowing where joy is in your heart—a bloodless victim of the gods below, a shadow. You do not answer, but scorn my words, you who are fattened and consecrated to me? Living, you will be my feast, not slain at an altar; now you will hear this hymn, a spell to bind you.

Come now, let us also join the dance, since we are resolved to display our hated song and to declare our allotted office, how our party directs the affairs of men. We claim to be just and upright. No wrath from us will come stealthily to the one who holds out clean hands, and he will go through life unharmed; but whoever sins, as this man has, and hides his blood-stained hands, as avengers of bloodshed we appear against him to the end, presenting ourselves as upright witnesses for the dead.

O mother Night, hear me, mother who gave birth to me as a retribution for the blind and the seeing. For Leto’s son dishonors me by snatching away this cowering wretch, a proper expiation for his mother’s blood.

This is our song over the sacrificial victim—frenzied, maddened, destroying the mind, the Furies’ hymn, a spell to bind the soul, not tuned to the lyre, withering the life of mortals.

For this is the office that relentless Fate spun for us to hold securely: when rash murders of kin come upon mortals, we pursue them until they go under the earth; and after death, they have no great freedom.

This is our song over the sacrificial victim—frenzied, maddened, destroying the mind, the Furies’ hymn, a spell to bind the soul, not tuned to the lyre, withering the life of mortals.

This office was ordained for us at birth; but the immortal gods must hold back their hands from us, nor does any of them share a feast in common with us; and I have neither lot nor portion of pure white ceremonial robes […]

For I have chosen the overthrow of houses, whenever violence raised in the home seizes someone near and dear. So speeding after this man, we weaken him, even though he is strong, because of the fresh blood.

We are eager to take these cares away from another, and to establish for the gods exemption from my concerns, so that it will not come to trial; for Zeus has considered us, a blood-dripping, hateful band, unworthy of his council.

And men’s thoughts, very proud under the sky, waste away and dwindle in dishonor beneath the earth, at our attack in black robes and the vindictive dance of our feet.

For surely with a great leap from above I bring down the heavily falling force of my foot, my limbs that trip even swift runners—unendurable ruin.

But, as he falls, he does not know it, because of his senseless folly; pollution hovers over the man in such darkness, and mournful rumor speaks of a dark mist over his house.

For it remains. We are skilled in plotting, powerful in execution, and we remember evil deeds; we are revered and hard for mortals to appease, pursuing our allotted office which is without rights, without honor, separated from the gods in sunless light—our office that makes the path rough for seeing and dim-sighted alike.

What mortal, then, does not stand in awe and dread of this, when he hears from me the law ordained by Fate, given by the gods for perfect fulfilment? My ancient privilege still remains, I do not meet with dishonor, although I have my place under the earth and in sunless darkness.