That our own tears with others' flow;
More sharply gnaws the hidden care665
Which we with others may not share:
And thou, though strong of soul, inured to grief,
Canst not in thine own weeping find relief.
Though Philomel for Itys sing670
Her sad, sweet notes in wakening spring;
Though Procne, with insistent din,
Bewail her husband's hidden sin;675
Not these, with all their passionate lament,