AGAMEMNON
A monologue from the
play by Seneca
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from Seneca's Tragedy, v. ii. Trans. Frank Justus Miller.
New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1917. |
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CASSANDRA: Where am I? Fled is the kindly light, deep
darkness blinds my eyes, and the sky, buried in gloom, is hidden
away. But see! with double sun the day gleams forth, and double
Argos lifts up twin palaces! Ida's groves I see; there sits the
shepherd, fateful judge midst mighty goddesses.-- Fear him, ye
kings, I warn you, fear the child of stolen love; that rustic
foundling shall overturn your house. What means that mad woman
with drawn sword in hand? What hero seeks she with her right
hand, a Spartan in her garb, but carrying an Amazonian axe?--
What sight is that other which now employs mine eyes? The king
of beasts with his proud neck, by a base fang lies low, an Afric
lion, suffering the bloody bites of his bold lioness.-- Why do
ye summon me, saved only of my house, my kindred shades? Thee,
father, do I follow, eye-witness of Troy's burial; thee, brother,
help of the Phrygians, terror of the Greeks, I see not in thine
old-time splendour, or with thine hands hot from the burning
of the ships, but mangled of limb, with those arms wounded by
the deep-sunk thongs; thee, Troilus, I follow, too early with
Achilles met; unrecognizable the face thou wearest, Deiphobus,
the gift of thy new wife. 'Tis sweet to fare along the very Stygian
pools; sweet to behold Tartarus savage dog and the realms of
greedy Dis! To-day this skiff of murky Phlegethon shall bear
royal souls, vanquished and vanquisher. Ye shades, I pray; thou
stream on which the gods make oath, thee no less I pray: for
a little withdrawn the covering of that dark world, that on Mycenae
the shadowy throng of Phrygians may look forth. Behold, poor
souls; the fates turn backward on themselves. They press on,
the squalid sisters, their bloody lashes brandishing; their left
hands half-burned torches bear; bloated are their pallid cheeks,
and dusky robes of death their hollow loins encircle; the fearsome
cries of night resound, and a huge body's bones, rotting with
long decay, lie in a slimy marsh. And see! that spent old man,
forgetting thirst, no longer catches at the mocking waters, grieving
at death to come; but father Dardanus exults and walks along
with stately tread.
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MONOLOGUES BY SENECA |
