Unto my mother! These are awful hours!
And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd
With such dark pressure, there is left no room
For one grief more.
Ther. Sweet lady, talk not thus!
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light,
There’s more of life in its clear tremulous ray
Than I have mark’d of late. Nay, go not yet;
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring