De F. Your heart has been but too severe unto itself;
And I can say I have not seen a beam break
From those eyes, but through dark clouds and showers;
Or like the sun, drench'd in the swelling main;
Nor a look with the least comfort of a smile in't.
Nay, divinest madam, now you do but chide
Heaven in your tears, and cannot raise the dead.
Claud. True, sir.
De F. Tears are but shallow murmurs of our grief.
I envy not his grave a tear, but owe all
Noble mention to't; yet, madam, I did hope
You had discharg'd the smart and cruelty of grief
From your soft breast, and would call your beauties
[Back] to their natural springs.
Look on yourself, rare lady, in this change:
With what high flame and rapture it becomes you:
So breaks the morning forth of a crystal cloud,
And so the sun ascends his glittering chair,
And from his burnish'd locks shakes day about.
The summer puts not on more delights and various
Glory, than shines in bright Claudilla;
And shall the grave exhaust their pride
And youth?
Enter Torguina.
Tor. Madam, the king's brother gives you a visit.
De F. Who's with him?
Tor. The colonel your lordship calls friend.
De F. Dessandro?
Claud. Let's meet 'em, sir. [Exeunt.