...I'm being murdered. Why, you are crying out for a trifle as yet, compared with what it will be. Whose are you now? Your own; for with your fists you have laid hands on me . Help, help, citizens of Thebes . What, still bawling, you scoundrel? Speak--what have you come for? For there to be somebody for you to belabour with your fists. Whose are you? Amphitryon's Sosia, I tell you. For this reason...