With loosened knees and face untaught to frown?
Would they for all my weeping pity me?
Yea, there is Fredegonde with mocking eyes:
I seem to see my life through smoking blood
That she and I have spilt in quarrelling.
Shall we too fill, with greater clamour, Hell;
Battling like eagles through the gloomy air,
That trembles at the passion of our wings?
Go from me: I repent not anything.”
“Nay, yet I shall not go; but rest and hear