Will coo your loves by this forbidding bed?
The. Ay, for her hovering shade knows now the truth.
[Enter Heraclides]
Her. Pardon, my lord, that I have sought you out.
The hour like an unbridled courser needs
Strong hands upon it. Ah,—death here?
Phil. There lies
Delay's excuse,—and yet 'tis none, for woe
Whose feast is but a heart should lift no head
Beside the large calamity that makes