LUCIUS. “Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?”
AARON. “Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse
Wherein I did not some notorious ill
As kill a man, or else devise his death
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself
Set deadly enmity between two friends
Make poor men’s cattle break their necks
Set fire on barns and hay stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends’ door
Even when their sorrows almost was forgot,
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters
‘Let not your sorrow die, though I
