Señ. True mock! I would
Except the death that's like a waiting bed
When not another turn may mend the day;
When sleep is sweeter than the thumbèd book,
And hearth-near voices drowse like waves that lap
Shores unconcerned. Now we are murdered, all.
Meg. No, no. Señora!
Gui. Ay! Do we not vaunt,
And set it rarely down, a thing to note,
If age unmoor the life-disusèd raft,
For th' chartless cruise?
Señ. Now we go hurried out,
With half our dreams unpacked, and earth made poor
With a few grains of dust where should have risen
Our wisest years in flower.
Meg. Fate, fate, Señora!
Señ. What's fate but ignorance? And not always that
Comes hobbling with excuse. Sometimes a man,
Whose eyes fling lances at the foes of Life,
Is knouted from the world——
Meg. No more, I pray!
This is a festal night. Reserve your sermon
For our next fast.
[A musical group plays softly under trees left. Enter lower right, Hudibrand, Cordiaz, Rubirez, Vardas, Ziralay and others]
Hud. Here, daughter? You've been sought.
Cor. The search was mine, your highness. I would beg
A grace of you.