To die, and need no bidding but your own!
Amph. King! you press hard on me sore-pressed enough,
And give me scorn—beside my dead ones here.
Meet in such matters were it, though you reign,
To temper zeal with moderation. Since
You do impose on us the need to die—
Needs must we love our lot, obey your will.
Luk. Where's Megara, then? Alkmené's grandsons, where?
Amph. She, I think,—as one figures from outside,—
Luk. Well, this same thinking,—what affords its ground?