Apol. I acknowledge.
The Fates. Hence, trickster! Straight sobered are we!
The portent assures 't was our tongue spoke the truth,
Not thine. While the vapor encompassed us three
We conceived and bore knowledge—a bantling uncouth,
Old brains shudder back from: so—take it, rash youth!
Lick the lump into shape till a cry comes!
Apol. I hear.
The Fates. Dumb music, dead eloquence! Say it, or sing!
What was quickened in us and thee also?