Now thaws in torrents from my eyes; yet more,
Pity a noble lady—my wife—his mother—
Who sits bow’d down with sorrow and disgrace
In her starved house.
King. This is a case, Don Lope,
For my Chief Justice, not for me.
Urr. Alas!
How little hope has he who, looking up
To dove-eyed mercy, sees but in her place
Severely-sworded justice!