Amph. O child!—for, faring badly, mine thou art!
Her. Do I fare somehow ill, that tears should flow?
Amph. Ill,—would cause any god who bore to groan!
Her. That's boasting, truly! still, you state no hap.
Amph. For, thyself seest—if in thy wits again.
Her. Heyday! How riddlingly that hint returns!
Amph. Well, I am trying—art thou sane and sound!
Her. Say if thou lay'st aught strange to my life's charge!
Amph. If thou no more art Haides-drunk,—I tell!
Her. I bring to mind no drunkenness of soul.