The Complete Aeschylus

Aeschylus

• Éditeur: Pandora's Box Classics
• Année: 2020
• ISBN:
  9789897782459
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Ancient & Classical Drama

Aeschylus was a Greek playwright who is considered to be the father of tragedy. Aeschylus was believed to have written at least 70 plays but only 7 have survived. This collection includes the following plays: The PersiansThe Seven Against ThebesThe SuppliantsPrometheus BoundAgamemnon (The Oresteia - 1)The Choephori (The Oresteia - 2)The Eumenides (The Oresteia - 3)

Agamemnon (The Oresteia — 1)

Characters in the Play

Watchman

Chorus of Argive Elders

Clytemnestra, wife of Agamemnon

A Herald

Agamemnon, King of Argos

Cassandra, daughter of Priam, and slave of Agamemnon

Aegisthus, son of Thyestes, cousin of Agamemnon

Servants, Attendants, Soldiers

[Scene: Before the palace of Agamemnon in Argos. In front of the palace there are statues of the gods, and altars prepared for sacrifice. It is night. On the roof of the palace can be discerned a Watchman.]

Watchman

I pray the gods to quit me of my toils,

To close the watch I keep, this livelong year;

For as a watch-dog lying, not at rest,

Propped on one arm, upon the palace-roof

Of Atreus’ race, too long, too well I know

The starry conclave of the midnight sky,

Too well, the splendours of the firmament,

The lords of light, whose kingly aspect shows —

What time they set or climb the sky in turn —

The year’s divisions, bringing frost or fire.

And now, as ever, am I set to mark

When shall stream up the glow of signal-flame,

The bale-fire bright, and tell its Trojan tale —

Troy town is ta’en: such issue holds in hope

She in whose woman’s breast beats heart of man.

Thus upon mine unrestful couch I lie,

Bathed with the dews of night, unvisited

By dreams — ah me! — for in the place of sleep

Stands Fear as my familiar, and repels

The soft repose that would mine eyelids seal.

And if at whiles, for the lost balm of sleep,

I medicine my soul with melody

Of trill or song — anon to tears I turn,

Wailing the woe that broods upon this home,

Not now by honour guided as of old —

But now at last fair fall the welcome hour

That sets me free, whene’er the thick night glow

With beacon-fire of hope deferred no more.

All hail!

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