THIERRY.
'Tis terrible!
ORDELLA.
'Tis so much the more noble.
THIERRY.
'Tis full of fearful shadows!
ORDELLA.
So is sleep, sir,
Or anything that's merely ours and mortal.
We were begotten Gods else. But those fears,
Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts,
Fly, like the shapes of the clouds we form, to nothing.
THIERRY.
Suppose it death!