But 'tis a grief of fury, not despair!
And if a manly drop or two fall down,
It scalds along my cheeks, like the green wood,
That, sputtering in the flame, works outward into tears.
Cleor. Why would you leave me then, and be alone?
Indeed it was a churlish kind of sorrow,
Indeed it was, to engross it all yourself,
And not permit me to endure my share.
Think you, because I am of tender mould,