Lid. Welcome, Father.
Fry. I know your resolution so well grounded,
And your adieu unto the world so constant,
That though I am th' unwilling messenger
Of a strange accident to try your temper,
It cannot shake you. You had once a friend,
A noble friend, Clarange.
Lid. And have still, I hope, good Father.
Fry. Your false hopes deceive you,
He's dead.
Lis. Clarange dead?
Fry. I buried him;
Some said he dy'd of melancholy, some of love,
And of that fondness perish'd.
Lid. O Clarange!
Clar. Hast thou so much brave nature, noble Lidian,
So tenderly to love thy Rivals memory?
The bold Lisander weeps too.
Fry. I expected that you would bear this better.
Lid. I am a man, Sir, and my great loss weigh'd duly—