And lungs of brass to give them utterance,
I’d not answer aught.
Aur. Then die!
Flavia rushes forward.
Fla. O! stop, Aurelius!—stay thy hand!
Remember, he is still my father!
Vor. My daughter, here! then curse the tardy blow,
That lingers thus performing of its office.
Strike, strike, I now beseech thee; for I’m sick,
And do abhor the very light of heaven.