In this emprise of peril and of pain,
Thou may'st, at ending of the fatal strife,
Console my weeping mother, sore distressed,
And her, so much beloved—my promised wife.
Leoncio.
It is, my friend, a very sorry jest,
To think that I, if haply thou be slain,
Would have such calm and quiet in my breast,
As to console, in this their urgent pain,