With eloquent melody—but they must die.
Con. What!—die!—for words?—for breath which leaves no trace
To sully the pure air wherewith it blends,
And is, being utter’d, gone? Why, ’twere enough
For such a venial fault to be deprived
One little day of man’s free heritage,
Heaven’s warm and sunny light! Oh! if you deem
That evil harbours in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stem justice wake.