Unto their purposes that restless fire
Inhabiting man’s breast. A spark bursts forth,
And so they perish! ’Tis the fate of those
Who sport with lightning—and it may be his.
Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free.
Eri. ’Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again
Bethink thee, lady! Love may change—hath changed
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye
Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well.