Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch’d lip
Implores a cup of water? Why, the stroke
Which trembles o’er him in itself shall bring
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies
Nature’s last prayer? I tell thee that the thirst
Which burns my spirit up is agony
To be endured no more! And I must look
Upon my children’s faces, I must hear
Their voices, ere they perish! But hath heaven