Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those
From whom just men recoil with curdling veins,
All thrill’d by life’s abhorrent consciousness,
And sensitive feeling of a murderer’s presence.
—Away! come down from your tribunal seat,
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien
Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at,
More than the pestilence. That I should live
To see my father shrink!