'Tis waste of words. Thou shalt not weaken me.
Medea.
Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when I kneel to thee?
Creon.
'Tis mine own house that kneels to me, not thou.
Home, my lost home, how I desire thee now!
Creon.
And I mine, and my child, beyond all things.
Medea.