ALB. Let death walk by himself; if he want company, There's many thousands, boy, whose aged years Have ta'en a surfeit of earth's vanities; They will go with him when he please to call. Do drink, my boy; thy pleasing, tender youth Cannot deserve to die; no, it is for us, Whose years are laden by our often sins, Singing the last part of our bless'd repentance, Are fit for death; and none but such as we Death ought to claim; for when a' snatcheth youth, It shows him but a tyrant; but when age, Then is he just, and not compos'd of rage. How fares my lad? MAR. Like one embracing death with all his parts, Reaching at life but with one little finger; His mind so firmly knit unto the first, That unto him the latter seems to be, What may be pointed at, but not possess'd. ALB. O, but thou shalt possess it. If thou didst fear thy death but as I do, Thou wouldst take pity: though not of thyself, Yet of my aged years. Trust me, my boy, Thou'st struck such deep compassion in my breast, That all the moisture which prolongs my life Will from my eyes gush forth, if now thou leav'st me. MAR. But can we live here in this desert wood? If not, I'll die, for other places seem Like tortures to my griefs. May I live here? ALB. Ay, thou shalt live with me, and I will tell thee Such strange occurrents of my fore-pass'd life, That all thy young-sprung griefs shall seem but sparks To the great fire of my calamities. MAR. Then I'll live only with you for to hear, If any human woes can be like mine. Yet, since my being in this darksome desert, I have read on trees most lamentable stories.[390] ALB. 'Tis true indeed, there's one within these woods Whose name is Albert; a man so full of sorrow, That on each tree he passes by he carves Such doleful lines for his rash follies pass'd, That whoso reads them, and not drown'd in tears, Must have a heart fram'd forth of adamant. MAR. And can you help me to the sight of him? ALB. Ay, when thou wilt; he'll often come to me, And at my cave sit a whole winter's night, Recounting of his stories. I tell thee, boy, Had he offended more than did that man, Who stole the fire from heaven, his contrition Would appease all the gods, and quite revert Their wrath to mercy. But come, my pretty boy, We'll to my cave, and after some repose Relate the sequel of each other's woes. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ CARRACUS.