God, thou’rt weeping
RECHA.
And this father—
It must have vent, my heart wants room, wants room.
SITTAH.
Child, child, what ails you, Recha?
RECHA.
And this father
I am to lose.
SITTAH.
Thou lose him, O no, never:
Arise, be calm, how so? It must not be.
RECHA.