In execration, to call down the fires
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts
But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d
Upon the traitor’s head!—Scorn make his name
Her mark for ever!
Mon. In our passionate blindness,
We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil
Oft on ourselves.
Pro. Whate’er fate hath of ruin
Fall on his house! What! to resign again