Iphigeneia.
Within the fane be men whose part is this.
Orestes.
And what tomb shall receive me, being dead?625
Iphigeneia.
A wide rock-rift within, and holy fire.
Orestes.
Would that a sister's hand might lay me out!
Iphigeneia.
Vain prayer, unhappy, whosoe'er thou be,
Thou prayest. Far she dwells from this wild land.
Yet, forasmuch as thou an Argive art,630
Of all I can, no service will I spare.
Much ornament will I lay on thy grave:
With golden oil thine ashes will I quench;
The tawny hill-bee's amber-lucent dews,
That well from flowers, I'll shed upon thy pyre.635
I go, the letter from the Goddess' shrine
To bring. Ah, think not bitterly of me![1]
Ward them, ye guards, but with no manacles.
Perchance to a friend in Argos shall I send
Tidings unhoped—the friend whom most I love:—640
The letter, telling that she lives whom dead
He deems, shall seal the happy tidings' faith.[2]
