That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought,
And dies.[66] You call this weakness! It is strength,
I say,—the parent of all honest feeling.
He who loves not his Country, can love nothing.
Mar. Obey her, then: 'tis she that puts thee forth.
Jac. Fos. Aye, there it is; 'tis like a mother's curse
Upon my soul—the mark is set upon me.
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations,
Their hands upheld each other by the way,
Their tents were pitched together—I'm alone.190