I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask
That I, the son of warriors—men who died
To fix it on that proud supremacy—
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor
In impious joy to trample!
Elm. Scorn me not
In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong—
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild;
I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but