ORES. I am he, the murderer of my wretched mother.
MEN. I have heard; but spare a little the recital of thy woes.
ORES. I spare it; but in woes the deity is rich to me.
MEN. What dost thou suffer? What malady destroys thee?
ORES. The conviction that I am conscious of having perpetrated dreadful deeds.
MEN. How sayest thou? Plainness, and not obscurity, is wisdom.
ORES. Sorrow is chiefly what destroys me,—
MEN. She is a dreadful goddess, but sorrow admits of cure.
ORES. And fits of madness in revenge for my mother's blood.
MEN. But when didst first have the raging? what day was it then?