Pentheus, of my love and his father's bred.
Cadmus.
Thou bearest in thine arms an head—what head?
Agave
(beginning to tremble, and not looking at what she carries).
A lion's—so they all said in the chase.
Cadmus.
Turn to it now—'tis no long toil—and gaze.
Agave.
Ah! But what is it? What am I carrying here?
Cadmus.