KING. What! you do not answer?
PATRICK. Heaven
Wishes for itself to answer.--
In the name of God, O corse,
[He extends his hands over the dead body of POLONIA.
Lying stiff here, I command thee
To arise and live, resuming
Thine own soul, and thus make patent
This great truth, before us preaching
The true doctrine and evangel.
POLONIA [arising]. Woe is me! Oh, save me, heaven!
Ah, what secrets are imparted
To the soul! O Lord! O Lord!
Stay the red hand of Thy anger,
Of Thy justice. Do not threaten,
'Gainst a woman weak and abject,
The dread thunders of Thy rigour,
Of Thy power the lightning's flashes.
Where, oh, where shall I conceal me
From Thy countenance, if haply
Thou art wroth? Ye rocks, he mountains,
Fall upon and overcast me.
Hating mine own self, to-day
Would that to my prayer 'twas granted
In the centre of the earth
From Thy sight to hide and mask me!
Ah, but why? if wheresoever
My unhappy fate might cast me
There I brought with me my sin?
See ye, see ye not this Atlas
Back recede, and this huge mountain
Tremble to its base? The axes
Of the firmament are loosened,
And its perfect fabric hangeth
Threatening ruin o'er my head,
With terrific pride and grandeur.
Darker grows the air around me,
Chained, my feet proceed no farther,
Even the seas retire before me.
What, here fly me not nor startle,
Are the wild beasts, which to rend me
Bit by bit come on to attack me.
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