Thou wilt have pity!
Her. Should I pity thee?
Thy sons will perish gloriously—their blood——
Elm. Their blood! my children’s blood! Thou speak’st as ’twere
Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth
And wantonness of feasting! My fair boys!
—Man! hast thou been a father?
Her. Let them die!
Let them die now, thy children! so thy heart
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm’d