Amph. Certes, the land that bred him boasts good sons!
Her. Turn me round, Theseus—to behold my boys!
Thes. What? will the having such a love-charm soothe?
Her. I want it; and to press my father's breast.
Amph. See here, O son! for, what I love thou seek'st!
Thes. Strange! Of thy labors no more memory?
Her. All those were less than these, those ills I bore!
Thes. Who sees thee grow a woman,—will not praise!
Her. I live low to thee? Not so once, I think!
Thes. Too low by far! "Famed Herakles"—where 's he?