CID. 'Tis to hope for a miracle in your favour, or to accompany you to
the tomb.

PSY. What room is there for hope after such an oracle?

AGL. An oracle is ever veiled in obscurity; the more we believe that
we know its meaning, the less do we understand it. Perhaps, after all,
you must expect from it nothing but glory and happiness. Suffer us,
dear sister, to behold this mortal dread deceived by a worthy issue;
or at least let us die with you, if heaven does not show itself more
propitious to our prayers.

PSY. Dear sister, lend a readier ear to nature's voice, which summons
you to stand by the king. You love me too much, and duty murmurs; you
know its unavoidable laws. A father ought to be dearer to you than
myself; become both the mainstays of his old age. A thousand kings, a
thousand rival kings, cherish love for you; you both owe your father a
son-in-law and grandchildren. A thousand kings vie with each other to
whisper their vows to you. Me alone the oracle demands, and alone,
too, I will die, if I can, without weakness, or, if not, at least
without you as witnesses of that little which nature has left me.

AGL. Then by sharing your woe we annoy you!

CID. I dare go somewhat further, we offend you!

PSY. No; but you add to my torture, and perhaps increase the wrath of
heaven.

AGL. It is your will; we go. May that same heaven, more just, and less