Cornelia. By which disguise (whate'er he doth pretend)
His own from being broke he doth defend:
And by the trains, wherewith he us allures,
His own estate more firmly he assures.
Philip. He took no pleasure in his death, you see.
Cornelia. Because himself of life did not bereave him.
Philip. Nay, he was mov'd with former amity.
Cornelia. He never trusted him but to deceive him.
But, had he lov'd him with a love unfeign'd,
Yet had it been a vain and trustless league:
"For there is nothing in the soul of man
So firmly grounded, as can qualify
Th' inextinguishable thirst of signiory.
Not Heaven's fear, nor country's sacred love,
Not ancient laws, nor nuptial chaste desire:
Respect of blood, or (that which most should move)
The inward zeal that nature doth require:
All these, nor anything we can devise,
Can stop the heart resolv'd to tyrannise."
Philip. I fear your griefs increase with this discourse.
Cornelia. My griefs are such, as hardly can be worse.
Philip. "Time calmeth all things."
Cornelia. No time qualifies
My doleful spirit's endless miseries.
My grief is like a rock, whence ceaseless strain
Fresh springs of water at my weeping eyes,
Still fed by thoughts, like floods with winter's rain:
For when, to ease th' oppression of my heart,
I breathe an autumn forth of fiery sighs,
Yet herewithal my passion neither dies,
Nor dries the heat the moisture of mine eyes.
Philip. Can nothing then recure these endless tears?