CHREMYLUS. I am going there.
BLEPSIDEMUS. Then hurry yourself.
CHREMYLUS. 'Tis just what I am doing.
POVERTY. Unwise, perverse, unholy men! What are you daring to do, you pitiful, wretched mortals? Whither are you flying? Stop! I command it!
BLEPSIDEMUS. Oh! great gods!
POVERTY. My arm shall destroy you, you infamous beings! Such an attempt is not to be borne; neither man nor god has ever dared the like. You shall die!
CHREMYLUS. And who are you? Oh! what a ghastly pallor!
BLEPSIDEMUS. 'Tis perchance some Erinnys, some Fury, from the theatre;[770] there's a kind of wild tragedy look in her eyes.
CHREMYLUS. But she has no torch.
BLEPSIDEMUS. Let's knock her down!