But this o’ertops them all! The rest I bore,
As best I might, with patience: but Orestes,
My own dear boy, my daily, hourly care,
Whom from his mother’s womb these breasts did suckle—
How often did I rise o’ nights, and walked
From room to room, to soothe his baby cries;
But all my nursing now, and all my cares
Fall fruitless. ’Tis a pithless thing a child,
No forest whelp so helpless; one must even
Wait on its humour, as the hour may bring.