THOAS. 
Do not incautiously condemn thyself.

                 IPHIGENIA. 

Oh, couldst thou see the struggle of my soul,
Courageously to ward the first attack
Of an unhappy doom, which threatens me! 
Do I then stand before thee weaponless? 
Prayer, lovely prayer, fair branch in woman’s hand,
More potent far than instruments of war,
Thou dost thrust back.  What now remains for me
Wherewith my inborn freedom to defend? 
Must I implore a miracle from heaven? 
Is there no power within my spirit’s depths?

                   THOAS. 

Extravagant thy interest in the fate
Of these two strangers.  Tell me who they are,
For whom thy heart is thus so deeply mov’d.

IPHIGENIA. 
They are—­they seem at least—­I think them Greeks.

THOAS. 
Thy countrymen; no doubt they have renew’d
The pleasing picture of return.

IPHIGENIA, after a pause,
Doth man
Lay undisputed claim to noble deeds? 
Doth he alone to his heroic breast
Clasp the impossible?  What call we great? 
What deeds, though oft narrated, still uplift
With shudd’ring horror the narrator’s soul,
But those which, with improbable success,
The valiant have attempted?  Shall the man
Who all alone steals on his foes by night,
And raging like an unexpected fire,
Destroys the slumbering host, and press’d at length
By rous’d opponents or his foemen’s steeds,
Retreats with booty—­be alone extoll’d? 
Or he who, scorning safety, boldly roams
Through woods and dreary wilds, to scour the land
Of thieves and robbers?  Is nought left for us? 
Must gentle woman quite forego her nature,—­
Force against force employ,—­like Amazons,
Usurp the sword from man, and bloodily
Revenge oppression?  In my heart I feel
The stirrings of a noble enterprize;
But if I fail—­severe reproach, alas! 
And bitter misery will be my doom. 
Thus on my knees I supplicate the gods. 
Oh, are ye truthful, as men say ye are,
Now prove it by your countenance and aid;
Honour the truth in me!  Attend, O king! 
A secret plot is laid; ’tis vain to ask
Touching the captives; they are gone, and seek
Their comrades who await them on the shore. 
The eldest,—­he whom madness lately seiz’d,
And who is now recover’d,—­is Orestes,
My brother, and the other Pylades,
His early friend and faithful confidant. 
From Delphi, Phoebus sent them to this shore
With a divine command to steal away
The image of Diana, and to him
Bear back the sister, promising for this
Redemption to the blood-stain’d matricide. 
I have deliver’d now into thy hands
The remnants of the house of Tantalus. 
Destroy us—­if thou canst.

THOAS. 
And dost thou think
The savage Scythian will attend the voice
Of truth and of humanity, unheard
By the Greek Atreus?