Her. Ah me! What sight do wretched I behold?
Amph. Unfair fight, son, this fight thou fastenedst
On thine own children!
Her. What fight? Who slew these?
Amph. Thou and thy bow, and who of gods was cause.
Her. How say'st? What did I? Ill-announcing sire!
Amph. —Go mad! Thou askest a sad clearing up!
Her. And am I also murderer of my wife?
Amph. All the work here was just one hand's work—thine!
Her. Ai ai—for groans encompass me—a cloud!