Speak; for thou hast somewhat to tell that touches me. Chorus Then speak I will, though twice to die were mine. O mistress mine! never shalt thou hold a babe within thy arms or clasp him to thy breast. Creusa Ah me! would I were dead! Old Servant My daughter! Creusa O woe is me for my calamity! Mine is a heritage of suffering and woe that poisons life, good friends. Old Servant Ah, my child, ’tis death to us! Creusa Ah me! ah me! grief drives its weapon through this heart of mine. Old Servant Stay thy lamentations. Creusa Nay, but sorrow lodges here. Old Servant Till we learn—