_Adam and Eve._
_Adam._ These sacrificings, O my best beloved,
These rites and forms which you have taught our boys,
Which I nor practise nor can understand,
Will turn, I trust, to good; but I much fear.
Besides the superstitious search of signs
In merest accidents of earth and air,
They cause, I think, a sort of jealousy—
Ill-blood. Hark, now!
_Eve._ O God, whose cry is that?
Abel, where is my Abel?
_Adam._ Cain! what, Cain!