For the dead hath no desire,
He knoweth nothing, nor reckoneth;
He is cold, and feels not the fire.
[He plays sad music in silence.
Enter suddenly Penelope (with some six maids attendant).
Ul. (aside). I see the beacon of my life undimmed.
PENELOPE.
Hush ye these mournful strains!—’tis music’s skill
To comfort and wean sorrow’s heart away
With beautiful distractions from its woe: