Nuncius. But (ah) my tongue denies my speech his aid:
Great force doth drive it forth; a greater keeps
It in. I rue, surpris’d with wontless woes.
Conan. Speak on what grief soe’er our fates afford.
Nuncius. Small griefs can speak, the great astonish’d stand.[280]
Gildas. What greater sin could hap, than what be pass’d?
What mischiefs could be meant, more than were wrought?
Nuncius. And think you there’s to be an end to sins?
No; crime proceeds: those made but one degree.
What mischiefs erst were done, term sacred deeds: