(In which pangs of conscience at last pierce the veil of our heroes' occluded consciences, long since numbed by their morbid professions)
“But woe to the riches and skill thus obtained, Woe to the wretch that would injure the dead And woe go his portion whose fingers are stained With the red drops of life that he cruelly shed” - Ballad of William Burke circa 1829
“[had] the receiver of these sixteen strangled bodies been punishable as well as the murderer, the crimes, which have cast a stain on the character of the nation and of human nature, would not have been committed” - Thomas Wakely The Lancet newspaper 21s t March, 1829
Dr. Knox: What is a man? Is he the sum of his beliefs? Or is he measured by the depths of his misdeeds? Is he but flesh and bone? The sum of component parts? Is he what he has wrought? Or what he has torn apart?
Hare: Our abhorrent enterprise, so deeply despised But evidence, I'll provide, to spare my own hide
Hare: I'll send Burke to his grave To be betrayed by incarnadined hands
Dr. Knox: Am I a butcher uncouth? The telltale truth are these incarnadined hands
Dr. Knox: Am I a slaughterer or a surgeon? A taker or giver of life?
Hare: A thief or a murderer? For which crime am I to be tried?
Dr. Knox: So many I've anatomized, truly I was desensitized I never failed to edify, Hare: nor to brutalize
Dr. Knox: The stain of the grave I am betrayed by incarnadined hands
Burke: The meager length of the noose The punishment due for incarnadined hands
Dr. Knox: Please tell me who I am - Please tell me who I am!
Solo – Michael Burke
Dr. Knox: What is a man? Is he the end or is he the means?
