Mayor

May’t please your lordship, ’tis no time for jesting; O save the city ere it be too late!— Not for myself I plead, but hapless wretches, That run like bedlamites across the streets, Shrieking for help; yet scarce know what they seek! As they behold their all devour’d by fire Lit by the glare of Ruin. For myself, Could I shake off the manacles of age That rivet every sinew, ye should see Me first to mount the walls—the last to leave them. Heard ye that shout without? I do beseech you, With skill united, meditate our safety, While I retire to keep the mob in order, Lest, like the flames, they do destroy themselves. Eternal Heav’n, why didst thou poise the world, To hang it on such human wretchedness!