Amaz’d she look’d,
And thank’d his care,
Then sunk once more to melancholy.
Pas. O! why sing thus? thou dost join wo to wo:
Thy grief, methinks, demands more cheering notes.
Fla. Oh! brother, this strange frame that keeps in life,
Is almost sick and weary of its tenant.
Tho’ short hath been its course, yet fickle fortune
Hath with it wanton made, and blown it
To and fro, a toy for this remorseless world.