Now then, imagine, I beg you, what the tyrant no doubt did and what he said before his end. When I sought to slay the son and wounded him again and again in those parts of his body which could be seen, that so I might grieve the parent most, that so I might rend his heart through the first sight, he raised a doleful cry, calling his parent to him, not to aid him or share the conflict—for he knew him to be old and weak—but to behold his own calamities. Before I slipped away, I had myself composed the whole plot of the tragedy, but had left to the actor the body, the stage-setting, the sword, and the remainder of the play. When the other made his appearance and saw his only son with but little breath in him, bloodied, covered with gore, his wounds close together, numerous, and vital, he raised this cry: “My child, we are destroyed, assassinated, fallen victims to the tyrant-slayer! Where is the executioner? For what purpose is he keeping me, for what purpose reserving me, now that I am already destroyed through you, my child? Or is it perhaps that he contemns me as an old man, and also by his dilatoriness (since I must be punished) protracts my death and makes my execution longer?”