Polemius.
He is just about to enter:—
You can see him; all his ailment
In the soul you 'll find is centered.
Carpophorus.
In the soul then I will cure him,
If my skill heaven only blesses. [Music is heard from within.
Claudius.
That he 's leaving his apartment
This harmonious strain suggesteth,
Since to counteract his gloom
He by music is attended.
(Enter Chrysanthus richly dressed, preceded by musicians playing and singing, and followed by attendants.)
Chrysanthus.
Cease; my pain, perchance my folly,
Cannot be by song diverted;
Music is a power exerted
For the cure of melancholy,
Which in truth it but augmenteth.
A Musician.
This your father bade us do.
Chrysanthus.
'T is because he never knew
Pain like that which me tormenteth.
For if he that pang incessant
Felt, he would not wish to cure it,
He would love it and endure it.
Polemius.
Think, my son, that I am present,
And that I am not ambitious
To assume your evil mood,
But to find that it is good.
Chrysanthus.
No, sir, you mistake my wishes.
I would not through you relieve me
Of my care; my former state
Seemed, though, more to mitigate
What I suffer: why not leave me
There to die?
Polemius.
