He soon will recollect his scattered reason,
Which heat of youth, and sickness and fatigues,
Have dissipated in his boiling blood.
Give him but time, and then his temperate humour
Will soon return into the native channel,
And, unopposed, be calm.
Vera. No; never more.
The moon has rolled above his head, and turned it;
As peals of thunder sour the generous wine.—
Hence from my presence, thou no more my son! [To Alph.