Orestes I must go, for to die ignobly is a coward’s part.
Pylades Well said.
Orestes Shall we tell my sister?
Pylades God forbid!
Orestes True, there might be tears.
Pylades That would be a grave omen.
Orestes Yes, silence is clearly better.
Pylades And you will gain time.
Orestes There is only one obstacle in my way.
Pylades What fresh objection now?
Orestes I am afraid the goddesses will prevent me by madness.
Pylades But I will take care of you.
Orestes It is annoying to have to touch a sick man.
Pylades Not to me, when it is you.
Orestes Beware of becoming a partner in my madness.
Pylades Let that pass.
Orestes You will not hesitate?
Pylades No, for hesitation is a grave mischief among friends.
Orestes On then, pilot of my course!
Pylades A service I am glad to render.
Orestes And guide me to my father’s tomb.
Pylades For what purpose?
Orestes That I may appeal to him to save me.
Pylades Yes, that is the proper way.
Orestes May I not see my mother’s grave!
Pylades No; she was an enemy. But hasten, so that the vote of Argos may not catch you first, supporting those limbs, slow from sickness, on mine; for I will carry you through the town, thinking little of the mob and unashamed. For how shall I prove my friendship, if not by helping you in sore distress?
Orestes Ah! the old saying again, get friends, not relations only. For a man who fuses into your ways, though he is an outsider, is better for a man to possess as a friend than a whole host of relations.
Chorus
The great prosperity and the prowess, proudly boasted throughout Hellas and by the streams of Simois, went back again from good fortune for the Atreidae long ago, from an old misfortune to their house, when strife came to the sons of Tantalus over a golden ram, to end in most pitiable banqueting and the slaughter of high-born children; and this is why murder exchanges for murder, through blood, and does not leave the two Atreidae.
Chorus
What seemed good was not good, to cut a mother’s flesh with ruthless hand and show the sword stained black with blood to the sun’s bright beams; to commit a noble crime is an impious, subtle, malignant madness! The wretched daughter of Tyndareus in terror of death screamed to him: My son, this is unholy, your bold attempt upon your mother’s life; do not, while honoring your father, fasten on yourself an eternity of shame.
Chorus
What affliction on earth surpasses this? What calls for keener grief or pity, than to shed with your hand a mother’s blood? Oh! what a dreadful crime he committed, and now is raving mad, a prey to the Furies, whirling blood with racing eyes, the son of Agamemnon! O the wretch! when he saw a mother’s bosom over her robe of golden weave, and yet he made her his victim, in recompense for his father’s sufferings.
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