These are dark times! I have not been alone
In my affliction.
THIRD CITIZEN (with bitterness).
Left for our gloomy comfort!—And 'tis well!
Aye, let the balance be awhile struck even
Between the noble's palace and the hut,
Where the worn peasant sickens!—They that bear
The humble dead unhonour'd to their homes,
Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train,
With its exulting music; and the wretch
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall
Flings himself down to die, in his last need
And agony of famine, doth behold
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just!
These are the days when pomp is made to feel
Its human mould!
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Of Saint Jago's bell?—How sullenly
From the great tower it peal'd!
FIFTH CITIZEN.
