When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms
—Who speaks of rest?
Xim. My father, shall I fill
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute
Whose sounds thou lovest?
Gon. If there be strains of power
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn
May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down
Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those!