Nor blush to call rebellion’s self a virtue,
Where I rebel, being kind to my own kin.
Our common source of life, a mother doomed
To matchless woes, nor less the father doomed,
Demand no vulgar reverence. I will share
Reproach with the reproached, and with my kin
Know kindred grief, the living with the dead.
For his dear flesh, no hollow-stomach’d wolves
Shall tear it—no! myself, though I’m but woman,
Will make his tomb, and do the sacred office.