This tragic play of revenge revolves around Clytemnestra, who has been unfaithful to her husband and king, Agamemnon. The captive princess and prophet Cassandra foretells her own death and Agamemnon's at the hands of the vengeful Clytemnestra.
Rating: Suitable for all ages
Copyright Status: Public domain
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Gods! I'm consumed by the prophetic fire-- Woe's me, Apollo, Slayer of the Wolves...View Full Monologue Text
Gods! I'm consumed by the prophetic fire--
Woe's me, Apollo, Slayer of the Wolves;
This human lioness, the base wolf's mate,
What time the generous lion's far from home,
Shall murder me. Aye, as she whets her sword
To slay the man, like one who drugs the bowl,
She pours into the cup of wrath my life,
Repaying by my death my bringing here.
Why wear I then the symbols of my art--
The prophet's necklace, the diviner's staff?
They shall not live at least to see my doom--
Go to destruction, whither I go too,--
Go and enrich some other hapless maid.
Aye-- He himself looks on and sees me scorned,
Unjustly scorned by friends and foes alike,
Tricked in these idle gawds-- Apollo, He
Now strips me bare of my prophetic robe;
And I, who have endured to bear the name
Of poor, starved, lying vagrant,-- I, on whom,
A prophetess, the prophet God has wreaked
His vengeance, now am led to Death's dark road.
And 'stead of altar in my father's house,
The block now waits me with its murderous stroke.
Yet shall we not fall unavenged by Heaven,
For there shall come one to requite our death;
A mother's slayer, one who shall exact
Price for a father's life. Yes, though afar
He wanders exiled and outcast from home,
Yet shall he come to gladden his friends' eyes,
And place the crowning and the coping stone
On this dark cruel work of destiny.
For a great oath is registered above,
That his dead sire lying with upturned face
Shall bring him home. But why make I this moan--
I who have seen the ruin of fair Troy,
I who now see her conquerors in turn
By Heaven's decree departing to their place?
Shall I not also go, and dare to die?
I make my prayer unto the gates of Death,
That without moan or struggle, while life's blood
Flows freely 'neath the mortal stroke, my spirit
May pass away, and my eyes close in night.
Age Range: 20s - Early
Dialects: Standard English