Pro. ’Tis well.
[Exit Procida.
Raim. Men talk of torture!—Can they wreak
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame,
Half the mind bears—and lives? My spirit feels
Bewilder’d; on its powers this twilight gloom
Hangs like a weight of earth.—It should be morn;
Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven’s bright sun
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon,
Telling of hope and mercy!