Moved by his grief, the father sought the place,
Ask’d for his girl, and talk’d of her disgrace;
Spoke of the villain, on whose cursed head 400
He pray’d that vengeance might be amply shed;
Then sought his sister, and beheld her grief,
Her pain, her danger,—this was no relief.
“Where is my daughter? bring her to my sight!”—
“Brother, I’m rack’d and tortured day and night.”—
“Talk not to me! What grief have you to tell,
Is your soul rack’d, or is your bosom hell?