And measuring time, that runs no more for me?
Yet sure the gods are good: I would think so,
If they would give me leave;
But virtue in distress, and vice in triumph,
Make atheists of mankind.—
Enter Cratesiclea.
What comfort, mother?
Crat. A soul, not conscious to itself of ill,
Undaunted courage, and a master mind;
No comfort else but death,