With bitter voice and mourning manifest,
Making the while harmonious melody,
Sing we the grief that hath our souls oppressed.
MARS.
Begin then, Crisio, may thine accents fly
With speed unto Claraura's ears once more,
Borne gently by the winds that hasten by,
As unto one who doth their grief restore.
CRISIO.
Whoso from the grievous cup
Of dread absence comes to drink,
Hath no ill from which to shrink,
Nor yet good for which to hope.
In this bitter misery
Every evil is contained:
Fear lest we should be disdained,
Of our rivals' jealousy.
Whoso shall with absence cope,
Straightway will he come to think
That from no ill can he shrink,
Nor for any good can hope.
OROMPO.
True 'tis ill that makes me sigh
More than any death I know,
Since life findeth cause of woe
In that death doth pass it by.