Seton

Here I stand, like Job, Beneath the blasts of Heaven! ay, like the gourd Smit in the wilderness. Alas! alas! My children falling round me, one by one. I can support no more. My son, even now, Like his lost brother, doom’d to execution. Heaven’s scourge falls heavy. Shall my stubborn heart Refuse submission, that the tyrant’s vengeance May make me childless.