Can reach our hearts; and they are merciful,
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us!
Ay, fear them! fear the loved! Had I but wept
O’er my son’s grave, or o’er a babe’s, where tears
Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun,
And brightening the young verdure, I might still
Have loved and trusted!
Elm. (disdainfully.) But he fell in war!
And hath not glory medicine in her cup
For the brief pangs of nature?