Chorus
Speak now no more; for from the gates I see
Chrysothemis advance, thy sister sprung
From the same parents: in her hands she bears
Sepulchral offerings, honours to the dead.
CHRY. Why, O my sister, is thy voice thus raised
Before the portal? Will no length of time
Teach thee no more to feed thy feeble rage
With thoughts as vain? I feel these present ills,
And, if I know myself, had I the pow'r,
Would show my thoughts: but while the storm is high,
I deem it prudent to let down my sails,
Nor dream of mighty deeds, while void of force
I cannot hurt. Thus would I thou shou'dst act.
Yet what I say perhaps hath not such strength
Of reason as thy firmer conduct shows;
But, as becomes my birth if I would live,
The potent must in all things be obey'd.
Electra. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.