And draw into your lungs its freshening breath.
Rhod.
Who tells you that? Enough—To with their bolts!
Turn every mirror round!
[Hero shuts the doors and turns round the mirrors.
My soul, ’tis true!
Vain, vain the salve of flattering persuasion
That I have duped my senses. Turn thee, Night,
And pall me in the dunnest of thy veils!
I am defiled as never yet was woman.