And at a time like this, the people drunk
With idol-ecstasy—
Just. Alas, alas!
Lis. Oh, gladly would I scatter these last drops
That now so scarcely creep along my veins,
And these thin locks that tremble o’er the grave,
In such a martyrdom as swept to heav’n
The holy Paul who planted, and all those
Who water’d here the true and only faith,
Were ’t not for thee, for fear of thee, Justina,