You and your gallant followers deserve.
’Tis not what thou’rt accustomed to at home,
Seneca, I know: pardon it. Thou lookest cold.
Come near the fire: pray heaven this bitter weather
May not have touched thy chest. A Gallic winter!
I can remember no such fall of snow
In March these twenty years; but looking back,
I find one noted in my journal then.
How goes your health, my lords?
SENECA.