As from the rose which the pale priestess kneels
To gather for a festal crown of flowers,
The aërial crimson falls, flushing her cheek,
So from our victim's destined agony,
The shade which is our form invests us round;
Else we are shapeless as our mother night.
Pro. I laugh your power, and his who sent you here,
To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain.
First Fury. Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone,
And nerve from nerve, working like fire within!