CAR. How did you know My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife, Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy To be so freed of a continual trouble? Had many a man such fortune as I, In what a heaven would they think themselves, Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds, Which in the angry skies call'd women's brows Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms? But yet I needs must tell you, old December, My wife was clear of this; within her brow She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown: But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory, It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on: She was so kind, of nature so gentle, That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't: Was not she then a rare one? What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor? Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate To yield to us, which we will ruinate. ALB. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see The shadowing elms, within whose circling round There is a holy spring about encompass'd By dandling sycamores and violets, Whose waters cure all human maladies. Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples, Revives your fading memory, and restores Your senses lost unto their perfect being. CAR. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh? For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't? ALB. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go? CAR. Faster than you, I believe, sir. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ MARIA. MAR. I am walk'd forth from my preserver's cave, To search about these woods, only to see The penitent Albert, whose repentant mind Each tree expresseth. O, that some power divine Would hither send my virtuous Carracus! Not for my own content, but that he might See how his distress'd friend repents the wrong, Which his rash folly, most unfortunate, Acted 'gainst him and me; which I forgive A hundred times a day, for that more often My eyes are witness to his sad complaints. How the good hermit seems to share his moans, Which in the daytime he deplores 'mongst trees, And in the night his cave is fill'd with sighs; No other bed doth his weak limbs support Than the cold earth; no other harmony To rock his cares asleep but blustering winds, Or some swift current, headlong rushing down From a high mountain's top, pouring his force Into the ocean's gulf, where being swallow'd, Seems to bewail his fall with hideous words: No other sustentation to suffice, What nature claims, but raw, unsavoury roots With troubled waters, where untamed beasts Do bathe themselves. _Enter Satyrs, dance, et exeunt._ Ah me! what things are these? What pretty harmless things they seem to be! As if delight had nowhere made abode, But in their nimble sport. _Enter_ ALBERT [_and_ CARRACUS.]