A memory of her face floats in on us.
It brings a crowned misery, half repose,
And we wail one to other; we obey,
For heaven’s many-angled star reversed,
Now sign of evil, burns into our hearts.
FIRST MERCHANT.
When these pale sapphires and these diadems
And these small bags of money are in our house,
The burning shall give over—now begone.