But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching,160
And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if——
But onward—I have borne it—I can bear it.—
How looks my father?
Offi.With his wonted aspect.
Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of Ocean,
The brightness of our city, and her domes,
The mirth of her Piazza—even now