" The Doric blade
Of temper'd metal in his hand he grasp'd,
And from his shoulders threw his graceful robe;
Then to assist him in the toilsome task
Chose Pylades, and bade the slaves retire:
The victim's foot he held, and its white flesh,
His hand extending, bared, and stript the hide
E'er round the course the chariot twice could roll,
And laid the entrails open. In his hands
The fate-presaging parts Aegisthus took,
Inspecting: in the entrails was no lobe;
The valves and cells the gall containing show
Dreadful events to him, that view'd them, near.
Gloomy his visage darken'd; but my lord
Ask'd whence his sadden'd aspect: He replied--
"Stranger, some treachery from abroad I fear;
Of mortal men Orestes most I hate,
The son of Agamemnon; to my house
He is a foe." "Wilt thou," replied my lord,
"King of this state, an exile's treachery dread?
But that, these omens leaving, we may feast,
Give me a Phthian for this Doric blade,
The breast asunder I will cleave.
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