Offend alike. They spoil, that bootless spare.
Angharat. But will my tears and mournings move you nought?
Guenevera. Then it is best to die when friends do mourn.
Angharat. Each-where is death! the fates have well ordain’d,
That each man may bereave himself of life,
But none of death: death is so sure a doom,
A thousand ways do guide us to our graves.
Who then can ever come too late to that,
Whence, when he is come, he never can return?
Or what avails to hasten on our ends,