The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades,
Which howled about my Candiote dungeon,[43] and
Made my heart sick.
Guard.I see the colour comes[ax]130
Back to your cheek: Heaven send you strength to bear
What more may be imposed!—I dread to think on't.
Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again?—No—no,
Let them wring on; I am strong yet.
Guard.Confess,
And the rack will be spared you.