When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are woman’s tasks!—in these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys!
Hath vain affection borne with all for this?
—Why were ye given me?
Gon. Is there strength in man
Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all
Its depths of silent agony, the heart