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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
835
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.
840
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
835
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.
840
Orestes. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1891.
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