Or let death find me in these dear, dear arms;
And, looking on thee, spare my better part,
And take me willing hence.
Crat. What! are you dreaming, son, with eyes cast upwards,
Like a mad prophet in an ecstacy?
Cleom. Musing on what we saw.
Just such is death,
With a black veil, covering a beauteous face.
Feared afar off
By erring nature; a mistaken phantom;