_Rasni._ Let not the infants, dallying on the teat, For fathers' sins in judgment be oppress'd!
_K. of Cil._ Let not the painful mothers big with child, The innocents, be punish'd for our sin!
_Rasni._ O, pardon, Lord! O, pity Nineveh!
_Rasni._ O Lord of heaven, the virgins weep to thee! The covetous man sore sorry for his sin, The prince and poor, all pray before thy throne; And wilt thou, then, be wroth with Nineveh?
_K. of Cil._ Give truce to prayer, O king, and rest a space.
_Rasni._ Give truce to prayers, when times require no truce? No, princes, no. Let all our subjects hie Unto our temples, where, on humbled knees, I will expect some mercy from above. [_They all enter the temple._
SCENE III.--_Outside the City of Nineveh._
_Jonas._ This is the day wherein the Lord hath said That Nineveh shall quite be overthrown; This is the day of horror and mishap, Fatal unto the cursèd Ninevites. These stately towers shall in thy watery bounds, Swift-flowing Lycus, find their burials: These palaces, the pride of Assur's kings, Shall be the bowers of desolation, Whereas the solitary bird shall sing, And tigers train their young ones to their nest. O all ye nations bounded by the west, Ye happy isles where prophets do abound, Ye cities famous in the western world, Make Nineveh a precedent for you! Leave lewd desires, leave covetous delights, Fly usury, let whoredom be exil'd, Lest you with Nineveh be overthrown. Lo, how the sun's inflamèd torch prevails, Scorching the parchèd furrows of the earth! Here will I sit me down, and fix mine eye Upon the ruins of yon wretched town; And, lo, a pleasant shade, a spreading vine, To shelter Jonas in this sunny heat! What means my God? the day is done and spent; Lord, shall my prophecy be brought to naught? When falls the fire? when will the judge be wroth? I pray thee, Lord, remember what I said, When I was yet within my country-land: Jehovah is too merciful, I fear. O, let me fly, before a prophet fault! For thou art merciful, the Lord my God, Full of compassion, and of sufferance, And dost repent in taking punishment. Why stays thy hand? O Lord, first take my life, Before my prophecy be brought to naught! [_A serpent devours the vine._ Ah, he is wroth! behold, the gladsome vine, That did defend me from the sunny heat, Is wither'd quite, and swallow'd by a serpent! Now furious Phlegon triumphs on my brows, And heat prevails, and I am faint in heart.