My shorten’d staff still yielded as I prest
The prop on which my age must yet rely,
And all on which my hand or eye could rest
Gave sad and solemn warning that we die.
ARGENSOLA.
Father of all! unfold, since thou art just,
Why does thy providence all coldly see
Pale innocence enchain’d that would be free,
Whilst fraud ascends the judgment-seat august.