Chorus: Though we be many, brief shall be our tale. (To Orestes) Answer thou, setting word to match with word; And first avow--hast thou thy mother slain?

Orestes: I slew her. I deny no word hereof.

Chorus: Three falls decide the wrestle--this is one.

Orestes: Thou vauntest thee--but o'er no final fall.

Chorus: Yet must thou tell the manner of thy deed.

Orestes: Drawn sword in hand, I gashed her neck. Tis told.

Chorus: But by whose word, whose craft, wert thou impelled?

Orestes: By oracles of him who here attests me.

Chorus: The prophet-god bade thee thy mother slay?

Orestes: Yea, and thro' him less ill I fared, till now.

Chorus: If the vote grip thee, thou shalt change that word.

Orestes: Strong is my hope; my buried sire shall aid.

Chorus: Go to now, trust the dead, a matricide!