Look up and weep no more.
Hen. Stop not my tears.
They shall pour sea-like till my body lies
An isle o'erwhelmed. My eyes could lend the skies
Another flood yet lack not moisture.... Glaia!
It was my kiss that slew thee. But for me
Thou hadst been living still. So Winter springs
To clasp his blushing Autumn love, then spends
His weary season burying her dead leaves.
Win. Rouse you, my lord. The creature is alive