And, if he falls,—which, O ye gods avert!—
Am in Amphitryon slain! Would I were there,
And he were here; so might we change our fates;
That he might grieve for me, and I might die for him.
Enter Phædra, running.
Phæd. Good news, good news, madam; O such admirable news, that, if I kept it in a moment, I should burst with it.
Alc. Is it from the army?
Phæd. No matter.
Alc. From Amphitryon?