We see, dear mistress: and we say, the Gods,
As hitherto they kept him, keep him now.
Merope
O my son! str.
I have, I have thee ... the years
Fly back, my child! and thou seem'st
Ne'er to have gone from these eyes,
Never been torn from this breast.
Æpytus
Mother, my heart runs over; but the time
Presses me, chides me, will not let me weep.
Merope
Fearest thou now?
Æpytus
I fear not, but I think on my design.
Merope