But if thy grief is irksome, death is near.
[To Hercules.]
Impale me on thy darts; that club of thine,
With blood of monsters smeared, raise to my death.
Come, slay me who am falsely called thy sire,1030
And so remove this blot upon thy name,
That I no longer may thy fame obscure.
Theseus: Why shouldst thou wantonly provoke thy death,
Old man? Why this mad haste to die? Away,
And hide. From this one crime spare Hercules.