Nay, I've not that—your pity-housing bosom.
Though �olus' thirty sons made centre round me,
There should I rest as on a summer cloud
Rose-covered by the toil of flying doves
To keep off heaven's tears. And you deny it!
The. My own!
Oc. You do not love me!
The. Hear him not,
O patient Heaven!
Oc. Come to me, Theano.