That all have perish’d! Many a noble man,
Made captive on that war-field, may have burst
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour,
Which to my soul is as the fountain’s draught
To the parch’d lip of fever, with a thought
So darkly sad!
Gon. Oh never, never cast
That deep remembrance from you! When once more
Your place is midst earth’s rulers, let it dwell
Around you, as the shadow of your throne,