+Claud.+ My lord, you have found an easy way into My heart, and won me from myself, ere I Could call my thoughts [forth] to resistance; Such strength brought your deserts! But now I hope, nay, can be confident (best sir), they are Treasured in a breast, whose virtues will Preserve them with themselves. +De F.+ O madam! +Claud.+ It may be, some discourse that, when first I entertain'd your love, I had not yet given The world and my dead husband's earth a full Accompt of sorrow, or paid his memory A year's just rent of tears: but I appeal To my own heart; and you, my lord, can say---- +De F.+ Your heart has been but too severe unto itself; And I can say I have not seen a beam break From those eyes, but through dark clouds and showers; Or like the sun, drench'd in the swelling main; Nor a look with the least comfort of a smile in't. Nay, divinest madam, now you do but chide Heaven in your tears, and cannot raise the dead. +Claud.+ True, sir. +De F.+ Tears are but shallow murmurs of our grief. I envy not his grave a tear, but owe all Noble mention to't; yet, madam, I did hope You had discharg'd the smart and cruelty of grief From your soft breast, and would call your beauties [Back] to their natural springs. Look on yourself, rare lady, in this change: With what high flame and rapture it becomes you: So breaks the morning forth of a crystal cloud, And so the sun ascends his glittering chair, And from his burnish'd locks shakes day about. The summer puts not on more delights and various Glory, than shines in bright Claudilla; And shall the grave exhaust their pride And youth? _Enter +Torguina+._ +Tor.+ Madam, the king's brother gives you a visit. +De F.+ Who's with him? +Tor.+ The colonel your lordship calls friend. +De F.+ Dessandro? +Claud.+ Let's meet 'em, sir. [_Exeunt._ ACTUS SECUNDUS, SCENA PRIMA. _Enter the +Duke+, +Duchess+, +Cleara+, +De Flame+, +Dessandra+, Attendants._ +Duke.+ I'm in arrears yet unto your grace. +Claud.+ A widow's entertainment, sir, you please to honour. +Duke.+ I wish the hours but short, that bring the night You are to lose that name in; and then, to what Length your own desires would spin 'em, Widow! Madam, there's disconsonancy in The name, methinks. Claudilla widow! Duchess, and still widow (like a cypress Cast o'er a bed of lilies) darkens your other titles: 'Tis a weed in your garden, and will spoil the youth And beauty it grows nigh: a word of mortality Or a _memento mori_ to all young ladies, And a passing-bell to old ones. Indeed, it is A mere privation; and all widows are in The state of outlaws, till married again.