Forgets the hasty hours,
And passes them as unregarded by,
As Men do Beggars who demand a Charity.
Enter Hippolyta.
Young Man, hast thou encounter’d none within this Grove?
Hip. Not any, Sir,—Marcel! my injur’d Brother!
Mar. Why dost thou turn away, and hide thy Face?
Hip. ’Tis not my Face I hide, but Sorrow there. [Weeps.
Mar. Trust me, thou weepest; would I could do so too,
That I might be less angry;