I but deceiv’d your eyes with antic gesture,
When one news strait came huddling on another
Of death, and death, and death: still I danc’d forward;
But it struck home and here, and in an instant.
Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries
Can vow a present end to all their sorrow’s,
Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them.
They are the silent griefs which cut the heartstrings:
Let me die smiling.
Near. ’Tis a truth too ominous.