Chaste Heraclide, thy blood is laid up in heaven's treasury; not one
drop of it was lost, but lent out to usury; water poured forth sinks
down quietly into the earth, but blood spilt on the ground sprinkles
up to the firmament. Murder is wide-mouthed, and will not let God rest
till he grant revenge. Not only the blood of the slaughtered innocent,
but the soul, ascendeth to his throne, and there cries out and exclaims
for justice and recompense. Guiltless souls that live every hour subject
to violence, and with your despairing fears do much impair God's providence,
fasten your eyes on this spectacle that will add to your faith. Refer all
your oppressions, afflictions, and injuries to the even-balanced eye of
the Almighty; he it is that when your patience sleepeth, will be most
exceeding mindful of you.