Kent. Poor child!
I thought you'd be her gentle, elder sister,
And help me still her woeful flutterings.
[Turns away]
Where's now the proud, sure strength that made discount
Of Heaven's arm? O, reed-propped vanities,
Swelling usurpful till ye seem our life,
Ye must come down that we may find ourselves
And God.
Mar. O, take me back! I did not know