This is Electra. Brilliant no more.
Men are of little worth. Their brief lives last a single day. They cannot hold elusive pleasure fast; It melts away. All laurels wither; all illusions fade; Hopes have been phantoms, shade on air-built shade, since time began.
And instead my beloved, luck sent you back to me colder than ashes, later than shadow.
In flood time you can see how some trees bend, and because they bend, even their twigs are safe, while stubborn trees are torn up, roots and all. And the same thing happens in sailing: make your sheet fast, never slacken, – and over you go.
It’s no city at all, owned by one man alone.
Ah! terrible is knowledge to the man Whom knowledge profits not.
Shall we not perish wretchedest of all, If in defiance of the law we cross A monarch’s will? – weak women, think of that, Not framed by nature to contend with men. Remember.
Oed. Must I not fear my mother’s marriage-bed?
The griefs we cause ourselves cut deepest of all.
Now is no time to delay. This is the edge of action.
No pity for these things, there is no pity but mine, oh father, for the pity of your butchering rawblood death.
Never bring them down to the level of my pains.
Time is the great healer, you will see.
Many years have passed since OEDIPUS solved the riddle of the Sphinx and ascended the throne of Thebes, and now a plague has struck the city.
Not I. Only the gods can give you that.
I try to say what I mean; it’s my habit.
None of your power follows you through life.
Who could behold his greatness without envy?
La insolencia produce al tirano.
Never since that time has this house got itself clear of rawblood butchery.