In doubtful balance. Either thou dost live,
Or thou dost kill thy sire. This fleeting soul,
Now worn with age and shattered by its grief,
Is trembling on my lips in act to go.1310
Art thou so slow to grant thy father life?
I can no longer brook delay, nor wait
To thrust the fatal sword into my breast.
And this shall be a sane Alcides' crime.
Hercules: Now stay, my father, stay; withhold thy hand.
Yield thee, my manhood; do a father's will.1315