The arm that strikes for freedom; speak! decree
The fate of our oppressors.
Mon. Let them fall
When dreaming least of peril!—When the heart,
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget
That hate may smile, but sleeps not.—Hide the sword
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls
Of banquetting, where the full wine-cup shines
Red in the festal torch-light; meet we there,
And bid them welcome to the feast of death.
Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words
Scarce meet our ears.
Mon. Why, then, I thus repeat
Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth
In some free festal hour, and woe to him
Who first shall spare!
Rai. Must innocence and guilt
Perish alike?
Mon. Who talks of innocence?
When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence?
Let them all perish!—Heaven will chuse its own.
Why should their children live?—The earthquake whelms
Its undistinguish'd thousands, making graves
Of peopled cities in its path—and this
Is Heaven's dread justice—ay, and it is well!
Why then should we be tender, when the skies
Deal thus with man?—What, if the infant bleed?
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs?
What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall
