Thy voice of woe doth rend!
Elm. Thy heart—thy heart! Away! it feels not now!
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man
Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven
Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem
Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon
With all forgotten sounds—my quiet place
Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep,