I mean thy praise, for she is worthy of thée.
Nay, while she lives I go not from the world;
Death sucks me not, though on his iron ladder
My years descend: she will be Thrasea still,
Without his struggles. Let me acquaint thee, son,
With one condition which I have thought to make,
Ere I commit her to thy trust.
Pr.Good Thrasea,
I know not how to thank thee; but, forgive me,
My secret was not this.