Of heaven’s prevailing love! ye shall not harm
One ringlet of her head. How! is there not
Enough of blood upon your burthen’d souls?
Will not the visions of your midnight couch
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap
Crime upon crime? Be ye content: your dreams,
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep,
E’en though this maid be spared! Constance, look up!
Thou shalt not die.