Vestal. The grave—a living grave—thou meanst it not—
To ope my eyes in th' ever during dark,
To breathe a thick and frightful atmosphere,
Drawn from my sighs and dampened with my tears!
Priest. The Gods demand their victim!
Vestal. 'Tis blasphemy to think it;
Oh! if thou ever knew'st a father's love,
A mother's sigh, a sister's soft caress,
If but one human sympathy be left,
Pardon, oh! pardon!