_Agr._ Eh! Why, I think my son’s ingratitude Is nought to this; he had the right to expect My favours: but for you, whom I chose out And set above the rest because I chose, Made you my friends because I chose, for you 600 There is no excuse. Had ye no motive, yet To see a woman in distress like mine, Wronged by her son, and injured as no woman Has ever been, should rouse a manly spirit, Ay, make a coward burn to do me right. But ye stand there aloof, and not a word. O good Seneca, Rememberest thou thy days in Corsica? The stoic letters of thine exile, writ With Naso’s pang, and that exuberant page 610 To me, at the first tidings of recall. I have it still, the letter, superscribed _Your most devoted slave._ Was not that felt? Had’st thou not cause? Now is the opportunity Of my distress, now I stand to lose all, All that those hard times strove for, all they won. The faith thou owest me, still may make all mine; Wilt thou deny it me? _Sen._ Alas, good lady! _Agr._ Alas! Is this the vein? Think you I come to hear Your lamentations? Ah! ye dare, I see, 620 Pity me while ye wrong me: but the truth Ye dare not say. Ye dare not say, Lo, we, Raised by your clemency, sworn to your service, Seeing your fair wind is changed, and there’s no hope Left to your following, do as all knaves do, Leave you to perish. Ah, all’s lost, all’s lost! [_Weeps._ _Bur._ (_to Sen._). Business attending me at home, I go. [_Going._