Here be the grapes my boy has plucked: they sate
Both thirst and hunger, pray refresh yourself.
Raphael. Dear mother, it is rest to hear thee speak.
'Tis not my hale young limbs that are forespent,
But an outwearied spirit, seeking peace,
Hath found it in thy voice. Speak on, speak on.
What of this holy saint? how chanced the tree
To save his life?
Maria. Ah, 'twas a miracle.
Through summer's withering heats and blighting droughts