Thy grief, that doth dishonour to my son.
Deid. Nay, nay, that word is mine: speak it no more.
Th. Weepest thou at comfort? Is deceit so dear
To mortals, that to know good cannot match
The joy of a delusion whatsoe’er?
Deid. What joy was mine shame must forbid to tell.
Th. Gods count it shame to be deceived: but men
Are shamed not by delusion of the gods.
Deid. Then ye know nothing or do not respect.
Th. Why what is this thou makest? the more ye have loved