Theod. Then I am lost—
Aust. Now think, unkind young man,
Was it for naught I warn'd thee to take heed,
And smother in its birth this dangerous passion?
The Almighty arm, red for thy grandsire's murder,
Year after year has terribly been stretch'd
O'er all the land, but most this guilty race.
Theod. The murderer was guilty, not his race.
Aust. Great crimes, like this, have lengthen'd punishments.
Why speak the fates by signs and prodigies?