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Aeschylus, agamemnon
AGAMEMNON
War is not woman's part, nor war of words.
CLYTEMNESTRA
Yet happy victors well may yield therein.
AGAMEMNON
Dost crave for triumph in this petty strife?
CLYTEMNESTRA
Yield; of thy grace permit me to prevail!
AGAMEMNON
Then, if thou wilt, let some one stoop to loose
Swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my foot;
And stepping thus upon the sea's rich dye,
I pray, Let none among the gods look down
With jealous eye on me-reluctant all,
To trample thus and mar a thing of price,
Wasting the wealth of garments silver-worth.
Enough hereof: and, for the stranger maid,
Lead her within, but gently: God on high
Looks graciously on him whom triumph's hour
Has made not pitiless. None willingly
Wear the slave's yoke-and she, the prize and flower
Of all we won, comes hither in my train,
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