Mutter’d, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dishonour’d soil,
The burden’d air! Our God upon the cross—
Our king upon the scaffold[425]—let us think
Of these—and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!
Blanche. A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear, honour’d head!
O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes