Oct.O, hold thy peace! I see
Thou canst not be my comforter. Alas,
I blame thee not. But yet, whate’er be said,
Think not our gracious deed finds its account
In the honour done: the wreaths I bring were woven
More for myself; the tears I shed, I shed
The more abundantly that they are crimes
In the sight of him that slew him.
Att.Speak not so,
Lady; thou’rt o’er-distraught.