the outlaw.
51
Hel. My father!
Duke. Who calls? what voice is that?
My eyes are dim, yet sounded it most wondrously like his;—
My son! my son!
Hel. Oh! pardon me, my father!
Alas, how cold thy hand strikes to my heart!
Live, live! oh, live! that I may show the world
How changed Helvitio is!
Duke. My son, where art thou?
Nearer! still more near!—let me feel your hand!
Bless you! stay, go not yet.—
I cannot see thee!—throw hack the hangings!—
Too late! too late
