You only are to blame—you only, you,
Cajoling me, or by your own cajoled,
Bringing me fleshless death for the warm life
For which my own eternal life is sold.
Luc. You were too rash,—I warn’d you, and if not,
Who thinks at a first trial to succeed?
Another time—
Cipr. No, no! No more of it!
What, have I so long dabbled with the dead,
That all I touch turns to corruption?