Full of most sweet assurance. Hark! it cries
To me as thy avenger. Thou forgiv’st
My hand the evil it has wrought on thee,
That the same hand, upon thy conqueror’s head
May work like ruin. The atoning Fates
Speak through thy desolation. They declare
That I shall tread the ungrateful city’s streets,
Armed with keen weapon and consuming fire,
And still unglutted rage. My wrath shall sow
The seeds of future ruins in her heart,