The wretch appear’d amid all these to say:
‘Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murder’d!’ He, replying, seem’d:
‘Wait now till I return.’ And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: ‘O Sire, if thou
Dost not return?’—‘Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.’—‘What to thee is others’ good,
If thou neglect thy own?’—‘Now comfort thee,’
At length he answers. ‘It beseemeth well
My duty be perform’d, ere I move hence.