Our acts’ consequences to our accounts fall.
Jack shoots off an arrow;—directs it to Jill.
The arrow poor Jill hits;—straightway does her kill.
If only it wound her, for great length of time
It tortures. Pain’s God’s work; wherever the clime.
Should Jack, at that moment, expire from his fright,
To plague her Jill’s wound would not cease, day or night.120
If from the effect of great pain, then, she die,
Remote cause is Jack, still, of her misery.
Account he must render for those pangs of hers.