THOAS. 
This privilege hath ancient custom here
To strangers ne’er accorded.

ORESTES. 
Then from us
Commence the novel custom!  A whole race
In imitation soon will consecrate
Its monarch’s noble action into law. 
Nor let me only for our liberty,—­
Let me, a stranger, for all strangers fight. 
If I should fall, my doom be also theirs;
But if kind fortune crown me with success,
Let none e’er tread this shore, and fail to meet
The beaming eye of sympathy and love,
Or unconsol’d depart!

THOAS. 
Thou dost not seem
Unworthy of thy boasted ancestry. 
Great is the number of the valiant men
Who wait upon me; but I will myself,
Although advanc’d in years, oppose the foe,
And am prepar’d to try the chance of arms.

                 IPHIGENIA. 

No, no! such bloody proofs are not requir’d. 
Unhand thy weapon, king! my lot consider;
Rash combat oft immortalizes man;
If he should fall, he is renown’d in song;
But after ages reckon not the tears
Which ceaseless the forsaken woman sheds;
And poets tell not of the thousand nights
Consum’d in weeping, and the dreary days,
Wherein her anguish’t soul, a prey to grief,
Doth vainly yearn to call her lov’d one back. 
Fear warn’d me to beware lest robber’s wiles
Might lure me from this sanctuary, and then
Betray me into bondage.  Anxiously
I question’d them, each circumstance explor’d,
Demanded signs, and now my heart’s assur’d. 
See here, the mark as of three stars impress’d
On his right hand, which on his natal day
Were by the priest declar’d to indicate
Some dreadful deed by him to be perform’d. 
And then this scar, which doth his eyebrow cleave,
Redoubles my conviction.  When a child,
Electra, rash and inconsiderate,
Such was her nature, loos’d him from her arms. 
He fell against a tripos.  Oh, ’tis he!—­
Shall I adduce the likeness to his sire,
Or the deep rapture of my inmost heart,
In further token of assurance, king?

                       THOAS. 
    E’en though thy words had banish’d every doubt,
    And I had curb’d the anger in my breast,
    Still must our arms decide.  I see no peace. 
    Their purpose, as thou didst thyself confess,
    Was to deprive me of Diana’s image. 
    And think ye that I’ll look contented on? 
    The Greeks are wont to cast a longing eye
    Upon the treasures of barbarians,
    A golden fleece, good steeds, or daughters fair;
    But force and guile not always have avail’d
    To lead them, with their booty, safely home.

                      ORESTES. 
    The image shall not be a cause of strife! 
    We now perceive the error which the God,
    Our journey here commanding, like a veil,
    Threw o’er our minds.  His counsel I implor’d,
    To free me from the Furies’