Hen. My lord!
You're too polite a mourner, by my faith!
O, Glaia, Glaia, Glaia, art thou dead?
Canst thou then sleep, O, God?
Win. That he does sleep
This deed is proof.
Hen. What deed? 'Tis false! She lives.
'Twas blessed yester morn I held her here,
And heard her laugh and say my kisses were
Like Maythorn blossoms dropping on her hair.