“Ah, my dear child, happiness is made of things intangible and fleeting. ’Tis as light as the feathery thistle-down.”
“Ah! my sweet lady, only in my dreams do I now enjoy happiness.”
“Even in my dreams, gentle child, am I denied solace,” replied Agrippina. “Ah! from the profundities of grief I have drunk great draughts. The sleep of that intoxication is filled with bitter dreams.”
“Like a stream that flows and flows, with incessant murmuring, restless struggling, and furious scoring, has been thy grief, my lady,” said Psyche, as she left the window and sat down near Agrippina. “In my impersonations I too have palpitated in the waters of grief. With mine eyes floating in tears have I suffered the sorrows of Niobe.”
“When I saw thee impersonate Niobe, my sweet child, mine eyes too were veiled with tears. When, one by one, Niobe loses her children, and sorrow is added to sorrow, grief to grief, the gradual increase of anguish thou didst well portray. But, my dear child, like the perfectly carved statue, beautiful but not living, thou didst lack the power to portray a mother’s grief. Then I saw it not; but to-day verily do I believe that no one could perfectly act the part unless she had suffered as I have.”
“In the mirror of the centuries I have never seen a reflection of grief truer than thine, my lady.”
“Give me thine hand, dear Psyche,” exclaimed Agrippina. “How warm it feels!”
“Thy hand is cold, my lady.”
“Ay; so is my heart.”
“Fearest thou further woes, my lady?”