Whose life was mine, as needful to my day
As is the sun; as natural, old a want
To very life as is the bathing air
That my blood battens on. Take these away
And give him back; it then were likelier
I should not gasp, fret, pale, nor starve, nor pine.
He is gone! O miserably, suddenly,
For ever; alas! alas!—See, who comes hither?
Att. ’Tis Agrippina, lady; and she carries
Wreaths such as ours.