In my loss for death I sigh, For 'tis life unto my woe. In the truth I find a lie, Greater doth the evil grow Whether I be far or nigh; No hope is there that is sure Such an ill as this to cure; Whether I remain or go, Of this living death the woe I must evermore endure. OROMPO. 'Tis sure an error clear To argue that the loss which death hath sent Since it extends so far, Doth bring in part content, Because it takes away The hope that fosters grief and makes it stay. If of the glory dead The memory that doth disturb our peace Forever shall have fled, The sorrow doth decrease, Which at its loss we feel, Since we can hope no more to keep it still. But if the memory stays, The memory of the bliss already fled Doth live the more and blaze Than when possessed indeed; Who doubteth that this pain Doth more than others untold miseries gain? MARS. If it should be the chance Of a poor traveller by some unknown way To find at his advance Fleeing at close of day The inn of his desire, The inn for which he doth in vain aspire, Doubtless he will remain Dazed by the fear the dark and silent night Inspires, and yet again Hapless will be his plight, If dawn comes not, for Heaven To him hath not its gladdening radiance given. The traveller am I, I journey on to reach a happy inn; Whene'er I think that nigh I come to enter in, Then, like a fleeting shadow, Bliss flees away, and grief doth overshadow. CRISIO. E'en as the torrent deep Is wont the traveller's weary steps to hold, And doth the traveller keep 'Midst wind and snow and cold, And, just a little space Beyond, the inn appears before his face, E'en so my happiness Is by this painful tedious absence stayed; To comfort my distress 'Tis ever sore afraid, And yet before mine eyes I see the healer of my miseries. And thus to see so near The cure of my distress afflicts me sore, And makes it greater far, Because my bliss before My hand doth further flee For some strange cause, the nearer 'tis to me.