Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish;
And since too soon, too well it must be known,
Hear it from me.
Phe. Throughout my curdling veins
Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel
I am not all a father. In my heart
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love,
O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son!
More than a daughter; and thine infant race,