The hate that burst to such an eager flame
Within my heart has smouldered to dull ash,
Which pity breathes to scatter.
SECOND SLAVE: Knows he pity?
FIRST SLAVE: Nay, he is throned above his slaughtered kin,
A reeking sword his sceptre. He has broken,
As one across the knee a faggot snaps,
Strong lives to feed the blaze of his ambition;
Yet shall a slave's hand strike cold death in him
For whom kings sweat like slaves?