GISMUNDA. So plenteous are the springs Of sorrows that increase my passions, As neither reason can recure my smart, Nor can your care nor fatherly comfort Appease the stormy combats of my thoughts; Such is the sweet remembrance of his life. Then give me leave: of pity, pity me, And as I can, I shall allay these griefs. TANCRED. These solitary walks thou dost frequent, Yield fresh occasions to thy secret moans: We will therefore thou keep us company, Leaving thy maidens with their harmony. Wend[48] thou with us. Virgins, withdraw yourselves. [TANCRED _and_ GISMUNDA, _with the guard, depart into the palace; the four maidens stay behind, as Chorus to the Tragedy_. CHORUS 1. The diverse haps which always work our care, Our joys so far, our woes so near at hand, Have long ere this, and daily do declare The fickle foot on which our state doth stand. "Who plants his pleasures here to gather root, And hopes his happy life will still endure, Let him behold how death with stealing foot Steps in when he shall think his joys most sure." No ransom serveth to redeem our days If prowess could preserve, or worthy deeds, He had yet liv'd, whose twelve labours displays His endless fame, and yet his honour spreads. And that great king,[49] that with so small a power Bereft the mighty Persian of his crown, Doth witness well our life is but a flower, Though it be deck'd with honour and renown. CHORUS 2. "What grows to-day in favour of the heaven, Nurs'd with the sun and with the showers sweet, Pluck'd with the hand, it withereth ere even. So pass our days, even as the rivers fleet." The valiant Greeks, that unto Troia gave The ten years' siege, left but their names behind. And he that did so long and only save His father's walls,[50] found there at last his end. Proud Rome herself, that whilome laid her yoke On the wide world, and vanquish'd all with war, Yet could she not remove the fatal stroke Of death from them that stretch'd her pow'r so far. CHORUS 3. Look, what the cruel sisters once decree'd, The Thunderer himself cannot remove: They are the ladies of our destiny, To work beneath what is conspir'd above. But happy he that ends this mortal life By speedy death: who is not forc'd to see The many cares, nor feel the sundry griefs, Which we sustain in woe and misery. Here fortune rules who, when she list to play, Whirleth her wheel, and brings the high full low: To-morrow takes, what she hath given to-day, To show she can advance and overthrow. Not Euripus'[51] (unquiet flood) so oft Ebbs in a day, and floweth to and fro, As fortune's change plucks down that was aloft, And mingleth joy with interchange of woe.