Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
The prize of all too precious you.
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.