The trump of Heaven, with whose determinate blasts[50]
The windes shall burst and the devouring seas
Be drunk up in his sounds, that my hot woes
(Vented enough) I might convert to vapour
Ascending from my infamie unseene;
Shorten the world, preventing the last breath55
That kils the living, and regenerates death.
Tam. My lord, my fault (as you may censure it
With too strong arguments) is past your pardon.
But how the circumstances may excuse mee,