Here is my robe: the stuff is torn; the stains
Began ’neath sharpened spikes, the hooks, the rack.
Didymus. For dress of mine, good in the foray once,
That keeps thee and a holy dream intact,
Thou giv’st me this, strangely to make of me
The athlete of thy Lord. Well, give it so:
I kiss each dear and venerable stain,
And lay the rended linen over me:
Would I were worthier!
Theodora. Cratidas the fond