MARGRAVE.
Are altered, you would say. I know it well.
My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud,
Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow.
The image that my mirror gives me back
I scarce believe my own—so pale and worn.
Would you have known me had we met by chance?
GODFREY.
Ay, ay—among a million—if you spoke.
There's the old touch of kindness in your voice;