Have guard against him. In his smoothest words
He'll subtly seat a devil to confound you.
'Tis pity. Eloquence is the flute o' the soul,
Which virtue alone should play, for good or bad
It has immortal consequence.
The. He was
My father's friend, and well may be my mother's.
Oc. Ah, but he coos too near her widowed nest.
The. Ocrastes! Can you dare? My noble mother!
Whose sorrows sit like shadows in her eye?