These days require such death! It is too much
Of luxury for our wild and angry times,
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink
From life, as flowers that shut up silently,
When the sun’s heat doth scorch them! Hear ye not?
A Cit. Lady! what wouldst thou with us?
Xim. Rise and arm!
E’en now the children of your chief are led
Forth by the Moor to perish! Shall this be—
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush’d,