For this great robber, still I should be blind
As justice. But this very day a wife,
One infant hanging at her breast, and two,
Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery,
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein
To beg her husband's life; condemned to die
For some vile, petty theft, some paltry scudi:
And, whilst the fiery war-horse chaf'd and sear'd,
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free,