Her. Theseus, hast seen this match—my boys with me?
Thes. I heard of, now I see the ills thou sign'st.
Her. Why then hast thou displayed my head to sun?
Thes. Why? mortals bring no plague on aught divine!
Her. Fly, O unhappy, this my impious plague!
Thes. No plague of vengeance flits to friends from friends.
Her. I praise thee! But I helped thee,—that is truth.
Thes. And I, advantaged then, now pity thee.
Her. —The pitiable,—my children's murderer!
Thes. I mourn for thy sake, in this altered lot.