Clytemnestra
634
Thou, my attendant, the oblations bring
Of the earth's various fruits, that I may pour
My pray'rs to royal Phoebus, from my soul
635
To chase the terrors that appal me now.
635
O thou, who hold'st thy guardian station here,
Now, Phoebus, hear the whispers of my voice:
I am not 'mongst my friends; nor to the light,
While she is near, behoves me all unfold.
By envy moved her ever-clamorous tongue
Through all the city wild reports would spread.
Hear me e'en thus; thus low must be my voice.
The nightly visions of this doubtful dream,
Electra. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.