?
Assure me of its fall.

PYLADES.
It lies in ruins.
But oh, ensure deliverance to us!
Hasten, I pray, the promis'd aid of heav'n.
Pity my brother, say a kindly word;
But I implore thee, spare him when thou speakest.
Too easily his inner mind is torn
By joy, or grief, or cruel memory.
A feverish madness oft doth seize on him,
Yielding his spirit, beautiful and free,
A prey to furies.

IPHIGENIA.
Great as is thy woe,
Forget it, I conjure thee, for a while,
Till I am satisfied.

PYLADES.
The stately town,
Which ten long years withstood the Grecian host,
Now lies in ruins, ne'er to rise again;
Yet many a hero's grave will oft recall
Our sad remembrance to that barbarous shore;
There lies Achilles and his noble friend.

IPHIGENIA.
And are ye, godlike forms, reduc'd to dust!

PYLADES.
Nor Palamede, nor Ajax, ere again
The daylight of their native land behold.

IPHIGENIA.
He speaks not of my father, doth not name
Him with the fallen. He may yet survive!
I may behold him! still hope on, my heart!

PYLADES.
Yet happy are the thousands who receiv'd
Their bitter death-blow from a hostile hand!
For terror wild, and end most tragical,
Some hostile, angry, deity prepar'd,
Instead of triumph, for the home-returning.
Do human voices never reach this shore?
Far as their sound extends, they bear the fame
Of deeds unparallel'd. And is the woe
Which fills Mycene's halls with ceaseless sighs
To thee a secret still?--And know'st thou not
That Clytemnestra, with AEgisthus' aid,
Her royal consort artfully ensnar'd,
And murder'd on the day of his return?--
The monarch's house thou honourest! I perceive
Thy heaving bosom vainly doth contend
With tidings fraught with such unlook'd-for woe
Art thou the daughter of a friend? or born
Within the circuit of Mycene's walls?
Do not conceal it, nor avenge on me
That here the horrid crime I first announc'd.

IPHIGENIA.
Proceed, and tell me how the deed was done.

PYLADES.
The day of his return, as from the bath