Tamyra. O father, have my dumb woes wak'd your death?[10]
When will our humane griefes be at their height?
Man is a tree that hath no top in cares,
No root in comforts; all his power to live
Is given to no end but t'have power to grieve.
Umb. Fri. It is the misery of our creation.[15]
Your true friend,
Led by your husband, shadowed in my weed,
Now enters the dark vault.
Tam. But, my dearest father,