Cast from my hand, why comes it not again?
The broken flow’ret, why does it not live?
If it be so,
Why are we here, and why is Abel dead?
Shall this be true
Of stocks and stones and mere inanimate clay,
And not in some sort also hold for us?
Adam. My son, Time healeth all,
Time and great Nature; heed her speech, and learn.
Cain. My father, you are learned in this sort: