Off from my soul! What! am I sunk to this?
I, whose blood sprung from heroes! How my sons
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace
On their majestic line! My sons! my sons!
—Now is all else forgotten! I had once
A babe that in the early spring-time lay
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last,
When earth’s young flowers were opening to the sun,
Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deem’d
All sorrow light to mine! But now the fate