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The oldest faithful follower of her lord, To keep her back with such a plea as this?

Cease! urge no more. Return; she must not come: The sick man is distorted—grown, and changed, Fearful to look upon: a lady's gentleness May not such sight abide.

A poor excuse! Hast thou forgotten when those wounded soldiers Lay near our walls, after a bloody skirmish Left on the field from which their comrades fled, How she did stand, with steady master'd pity, 'Midst horrid sights from which her women fled With looks averted, till each bleeding wretch Was bound and comforted? Distorted, sayest thou! Who goes to chambers of disease and death To look on pleasant sights?

I did not murder him.

He spoke of murder!