From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha!
Myr. Alas! thou art pale, and on thy brow the drops
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush—
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world,40
And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer;
All will go well.
Sar.Thy hand—so—'tis thy hand;
'Tis flesh; grasp—clasp—yet closer, till I feel
Myself that which I was.
Myr.At least know me