I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth,
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes
Which far outweigh thine own.
Elm. It may not be!
Whose grief is like a mother’s for her sons?
Her. My son lay stretch’d upon his battle-bier,
And there were hands wrung o’er him which had caught
Their hue from his young blood!
Elm. What tale is this?
Her. Read you no records in this mien, of things