Polemius.
All my house is in confusion,
Full of terrors, full of horrors;[11]
Ah! how true it is a son
Is the source of many sorrows!—
Claudius.
But, my lord, reflect . . .
Escarpin.
Consider . . .
Think . . .
Polemius.
Why think, when misery follows?—
Cease: you add to my affliction,
And in no way bring me solace.
Since you see that in his madness
He is now more firm and constant,
Falling sick of new diseases,
Ere he 's well of old disorders:
Since one young and beauteous maiden,
Whom love wished to him to proffer,
Free from every spot and blemish,
Pure and perfect in her fondness,
Is the one whose fatal charms
Give to him such grief and torment,
That each moment he may perish,
That he may expire each moment;
How then can you hope that I
Now shall list to words of comfort?—
Claudius.
Why not give this beauteous maiden
To your son to be his consort,
Since you see his inclination?
Polemius.
For this reason: when the project
I proposed, the two made answer,
That before they wed, some problem,
Some dispute that lay between them
Should be settled: this seemed proper:
But when I would know its nature
I could not the cause discover.
From this closeness I infer
That some secret of importance
Lies between them, and that this
Is the source of all my sorrows.