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Chorus And you, lady, the Argive penteconter will bear you home; the wax-bound reed of the mountain god Pan, piping, will shout to the oars, and Phoebus the prophet, with the ring of his seven-stringed lyre, singing, will guide you well to the gleaming land of the Athenians. Leaving me here, you will go with splashing oars. In the breeze, the forestays of the ship that carries you swiftly will spread out over the front beyond the prow.
Orestes By the gods, Pylades, do you feel the same thing I do? Pylades I do not know; I have no reply to your question. Orestes Who is the girl? How like a Hellene she questioned me about the labors in Ilium and the return of the Achaeans, and Calchas, wise in omens, and Achilles' name; and how she pitied the wretched Agamemnon, and asked me about his wife and children! This stranger is an Argive by race, and from that land; or she would not be sending the tablet and examining these things, as if she had some share in Argos' prosperity. Pylades You are not much ahead of me: I was about to say the same things you said, except this: all who move about in the world know what happens to kings. But I have arrived at another consideration. Orestes What is it? Share it with me so that you may know better. Pylades It is shameful for me to live when you are dead; I sailed together with you, and I ought to die together with you. For I will seem a coward and base in Argos and Phocis o