Her. Woe!
Here might I grow a stone, nor mind woes more!
Thes. Cease! Give thy hand to friendly helpmate now!
Her. Nay, but I wipe off blood upon thy robes!
Thes. Squeeze out and spare no drop! I take it all!
Her. Of sons bereaved, I have thee like my son!
Thes. Give to my neck thy hand! 'tis I will lead.
Her. Yoke-fellows friendly—one heartbroken, though!
O father! such a man we need for friend!