In vain we labour in this course of life
To piece our journey out at length, or crave
Respite of breath; our home is in the grave.
(Ibid.)
[98]:
Sure if we were all sirens, we should sing pitifully,
And 'twere a comely music, when in parts
One sung another's knell; the turtle sighs
When he hath lost his mate; and yet some say
He must be dead first. 'Tis a fine deceit
To pass away in a dream! Indeed, I've slept
With mine eyes open, a great while. No falsehood
Equals a broken faith. There's not a hair
Sticks on my head, but, like a leaden plummet,
It sinks me to the grave; I must creep thither,
This journey is not long.
.... Since I was first a wife, I might have been
Mother to many pretty prattling babes;
They would have smiled when I smiled; and, for certain,
I would have cried, when they cried;—Truly, brother,
My father would have pick'd me out a husband,
And then my little ones had been no bastards;
But 'tis too late for me to marry now,
I am past child bearing; 'tis not my fault....
Spare your hand.
Believe me, I'll not hurt it....
Complain not though I wring it hard; I'll kiss it;
Oh 'tis a fine soft palm!—Hark, in thine ear;
Like whom I look, prithee?—Nay, no whispering.
Goodness! we had been too happy; too much happiness
Will make folk proud, they say....
There is no peace left for a ravish'd wife
Widow'd by lawless marriage. To all memory
Penthea's, poor Penthea's name is strumpeted....
Forgive me, oh, I faint.
(Ibidem.)
[99]: Schopenhauer, Métaphysique de l'amour et de la mort. Swift aussi disait que «la mort et l'amour sont les deux choses où l'homme soit foncièrement déraisonnable.» En effet, c'est l'espèce et l'instinct qui s'y manifestent, non la volonté et l'individu.
[100]: Mort d'Ophélia, funérailles d'Imogène.
There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead-men's fingers call them.
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.
(Hamlet, acte V, sc. i.)