Not they have pierced a man’s heart, poor white things,
That yet look unwasht murd’rers; while the sword
Gleams icy pure, like some fire-eyèd angel
New-born in Heaven.
Ostyn. New-born in Heaven.What of it?
Theodora. Ostyn. New-born in Heaven.What of it?I am the sword;
You are the flowers. The load of guilt I had
Is smear’d on you, who to your dying day
Shall wear such stains no rain of mercy ever
Can wash from off you.