Phil. [Groaning heavily.] Ah! ah! ah!
Neop. What means this cry?
Phil. 'Tis nought, my son; go on.
Neop. Art thou in pain from onset of disease?
Phil. Not so, not so; I think 'tis easier now.
Ye Gods! ye Gods!
Neop. Why groan'st thou thus, and callest on the Gods?
Phil. That they may come with power to soothe and save.
Ah! ah! ah! [Groaning in agony.]
Neop. What ails thee? Wilt thou thus thy silence keep,740
And wilt not tell? 'Tis clear some ill is on thee.
Phil. I perish, Ο my son, and cannot hide
The evil from thee. Oh, it darts, it darts.
Ο misery! Ο miserable me!
I perish, Ο my son; it eats me up.
[Gasps with suppressed agony.
Oh! by the Gods, my son, if thou hast there
A sword at hand, smite thou this foot of mine,
And lop it off at once. Care not for life:
Come, boy, be quick. . . . .
Neop. And what new sudden grief750
Is this for which thou mak'st this wailing and lament?
Phil. Thou know'st, my son.
Neop. What is 't?
Phil. Thou knowest, boy.
Neop. What is it? I know not.
Phil. How can it be
Thou dost not know it well? Ah me! Ah me!
Neop. Sore is the growing weight of thy disease.
Phil. Yea, sore beyond all words: nay, pity me.
