Consign us to the sword, the rope, the fire!
Theogenes.
So may it be, nor let our steps be slow,
For cruel Fate doth urge me on to death.
Son.
Why weepest, mother? Whither do we go?
Stay, stay, I am so faint, I have no breath!
My mother, let us eat, 'tis better so,
For me this bitter hunger wearyeth.
Mother.