NEO. What know I?
PHI. O! thou knowest, my son!
NEO. I know not.
PHI. How? Not know? Ah me! Pain, pain!
NEO. Thy plague is a sore burden, heavy and sore.
PHI. Sore? ’Tis unutterable. Have pity on me!
NEO. What shall I do?
PHI. Do not in fear forsake me.
This wandering evil comes in force again,
Hungry as ere it fed.
NEO. O hapless one!
Thrice hapless in thy manifold distress!
What wilt thou? Shall I raise thee on mine arm?
PHI. Nay, but receiving from my hand the bow,
As late thou didst desire me, keep it safe
And guard it, till the fury of my pain
Pass over me and cease. For when ’tis spent,
Slumber will seize me, else it ne’er would end.
I must sleep undisturbed. But if meanwhile
They come,—by Heaven I charge thee, in no wise,
Willingly nor perforce, let them have this!
Else thou wilt be the slayer of us both;
Of me thy suppliant, and of thyself.