ABIATHAR
Who lieth yonder,
And sleeping lieth—for a thrust to end.
DAVID
[His sword quickly out, struggling.]
This throb and wounds that wring me! and this wail
Under the deeps of me against his wrongs,
Awakening remembrance that with burst
And burn of pain.… O, never-ceasing ill!
[Flings the sword down, anguished.]