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Rh

Thou liest, thou cursed fool! thou should'st have sped Swift as a bullet from the cannon's mouth. (Collaring him again)

Hold, general! what hath the poor man done?

What has he done! he's brought a pardon, fiend! God bless us all, and let us keep our wits! Is this true seeing that my eyes are blest with? O welcome, welcome! this is wonderful! My boy! my noble boy! my gallant boy! Thou art a man again, and I—I'm mad: My head wheels round, but 'tis a blessed madness. What say'st thou? art thou silent? Hast no voice?

To be upon the verge of death is awful; And awful from that verge to be recall'd. God bless ye! O God bless ye! I am spent; But let me draw my breath a little while,