Mater. Nay, rather, dear spouse, how much is my case,
To be now advanced by such happy grace,
Doth daily distil: my husband so loving,
Granting and giving to all thing behoving,
Joying in me and in the fruit of my womb:
Who would not requite it, the gods yield their doom,
And if it be I, the gods do destroy me,
Rather than sin so sore should annoy me.
Virginius. O wife, refell thy wishing for woe,
Myself thy fau’t right well do know: