That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared,
To number and to mete us forth the sands
Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch,
He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood
Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time
To wean his turbulent passions from the world
His presence doth pollute! It is not thus?
We must have time to school us.
Gon. We have but
To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice