Epicurus. What, if it makes our enemies cease to hate us? what, if it makes our friends love us the more?
Leontion. Us? According to your doctrine we shall not exist at all.
Epicurus. I spoke of that which is consolatory while we are here, and of that which in plain reason ought to render us contented to stay no longer. You, Leontion, would make others better; and better they certainly will be, when their hostilities languish in an empty field, and their rancour is tired with treading upon dust. The generous affections stir about us at the dreary hour of death, as the blossoms of the Median apple swell and diffuse their fragrance in the cold.
Ternissa. I cannot bear to think of passing the Styx, lest Charon should touch me; he is so old and wilful, so cross and ugly.
Epicurus. Ternissa! Ternissa! I would accompany you thither, and stand between. Would you not too, Leontion?
Leontion. I don’t know.
Ternissa. Oh, that we could go together!
Leontion. Indeed!
Ternissa. All three, I mean—I said—or was going to say it. How ill-natured you are, Leontion, to misinterpret me; I could almost cry.
Leontion. Do not, do not, Ternissa! Should that tear drop from your eyelash you would look less beautiful.