Marg. O, Father, thou art kind, and thou wilt do it,
Thou hast all power, all heaven-given strength,
To bless, to ban, to slay, to make alive:
O bring my baby back to me again.
Hild. Daughter, I am but a weak, despised old man,
One poor enough in even this life’s powers
To make him jealous o’ yon sweet, sleeping babe
Whom the angel of death makes waxen in thine arms.
Marg. O Father, tell me not that he is dead.
Hild. Margaret, Margaret, this is not thy babe,