Cho. So as to set me oft, from dark mind, groaning.
Her. Whence came this ill mind—hatred to the army?
Cho. Of old, I use, for mischief's physic, silence.
Her. And how, the chiefs away, did you fear any?
Cho. So that now—late thy word—much joy were—dying!
Her. For well have things been worked out: these,—in much time,
Some of them, one might say, had luck in falling,
While some were faulty: since who, gods excepted,
Goes, through the whole time of his life, ungrieving?
For labors should I tell of, and bad lodgments,