Mic. I, jesting with you! For what reason?
Æsch. I don’t know; but so anxiously do I wish this to be true, that I am the more afraid it may not be.
Mic. Go home, and pray to the Gods that you may have your wife; be off.
Æsch. What! have my wife now?
Mic. Now.
Æsch. Now?
Mic. Now, as soon as possible.
Æsch. May all the Gods detest me, father, if I do not love you better than even my very eyes!
Mic. What! better than her?
Æsch. Quite as well.