Because his flocks are folded.
Didymus. Ah, not I!
My star is withered; I am man no more.
Sigh after sigh the builder Grief takes up,
To heighten over me her gradual arch.
The Child. An arch of entrance to a generous garden,
Where spirits and the moonlit waters are.
Take comfort!
Didymus. Thou art a strange child, methinks,
To say that too wise word.