That bade me not despair, but still hope well.
Then die not yet;
For heaven has means to free us; if not me,
Yet these, and you. I am the hunted stag,
Whose life may ransom yours.
Crat. No more of that:
I find your distant drift,—to die alone;
An unkind accusation of us all,
As if we durst not die; I'll not survive you.
Panth. Nor I.