Off. Yet is the breach not made, and we are strong;
Still we may out, my lord, and beat them off.
Vor. Can wicked souls e’er stand before the just;
Can strength outweigh the mighty hand of God?
No, no; never, never! O! repentance,
Why dost thou linger thus to ask admittance?
Thou com’st, alas! too late; thou’rt stale and nauseous.
Where, where is now the good, old murder’d king?
In fields of bliss, where guilty souls ne’er come.
Enter another Officer.