Iphigenia: The hallow'd fire within, and a dark cave.
Orestes: O, that a sister's hand might wrap these limbs!
Iphigenia: Vain wish, unhappy youth, whoe'er thou art,
Hast thou conceived; for from this barbarous land
Far is her dwelling. Yet, of what my power
Permits (since thou from Argos draw'st thy birth,)
No grace will I omit: for in the tomb
I will place much of ornament, and pour
The dulcet labour of the yellow bee,
From mountain flowers extracted, on thy pyre.
But I will go, and from the temple bring
The letter; yet 'gainst me no hostile thought
Conceive. You, that attend here, guard them well,
But without chains. To one, whom most I love
Of all my friends, to Argos I shall send
Tidings perchance unlook'd for; and this letter,
Declaring those whom he thought dead alive,
Shall bear him an assured and solid joy. (She enters the temple.)
Chorus: (chanting) Thee, o'er whose limbs the bloody drops shall soon
Be from the lavers sprinkled, I lament.
Studies
