[Pg 15] PRAXITHEA. What portent from the mid oracular place Hath smitten thee so like a curse that flies Wingless, to waste men with its plagues? yet speak. ERECHTHEUS. Thy blood the Gods require not; take this first. PRAXITHEA. To me than thee more grievous this should sound. ERECHTHEUS. That word rang truer and bitterer than it knew. PRAXITHEA. This is not then thy grief, to see me die? ERECHTHEUS. Die shalt thou not, yet give thy blood to death. PRAXITHEA. 290 If this ring worse I know not; strange it rang. [Pg 16] [Pg 16]