Orestes: O Phoebus! they will kill me, yon hounds of hell, death's
priestesses with glaring eyes, terrific goddesses.
Electra: I will not let thee go; but with arms twined round thee will
prevent thy piteous tossing to and fro.
Orestes: Loose me! thou art one of those fiends that plague me, and
art gripping me by the waist to hurl my body into Tartarus.
Electra: Woe is me! what succour can I find, seeing that we have Heaven's
forces set against us?
Orestes: Give me my horn-tipped bow, Apollo's gift, wherewith that
god declared that I should defend myself against these goddesses,
if ever they sought to scare me with wild transports of madness.
A mortal hand will wound one of these goddesses, unless she vanish
from my sight. Do ye not heed me, or mark the feathered shaft of my
far-shooting bow ready to wing its flight? What! do ye linger still?
Spread your pinions, skim the sky, and blame those oracles of Phoebus.
Studies
