To see their children perish?
Gon. Then the guilt
Was thine?
Elm. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt?
I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things,
Made naught more holy than the boundless love
Which fills a mother’s heart! I say, ’tis woe
Enough, with such an aching tenderness,
To love aught earthly! and in vain! in vain!
—We are press’d down too sorely!