ANGHARAD

Her breast not yet appeased from former rage Hath chaungde her wrath, which wanting means to work And others woe, (for such is furies wont,) Seékes out his own, and raves upon it self. Assuage (alas) that over fervent ire, Through to much anger, you offend too much: Thereby the rather you deserve to live, For seeming worthy in your self to die. No mischief must be done, while I be by, Or if there must, there must be more then one. If death it be you seek, I seek, it too: Alone you may not die, with me you may. But will my tears and mournings move you nought? Each where is death: that, fates have well ordainde, That each man may bereave himself of life, But none of death: death is so sure a doom: A thousand ways do guide us to our graves. Who then can ever come too late to that, Whence, when h'is come, he never can return? Or what avails to hasten on our ends, And long for that, which destinies have sworn? Look back in time, to late is to repent, When furious rage hath once cut of the choice. Set plaints aside, despair yeélds no relief. The more you search a wound, the more it stings. Grief is no joust esteémer of our deeds: What so hath yet been done, proceédes from chance. Then is your fault from Fate, you rest excused: None can be deémed faulty for her Fate. Love is and error, that may blind the best. Alas What change were that, from Kingly rooffes To Cloistered cells? To live, and die at once? To want your stately troops, your friends and kin? To shun the shows and sights of stately Court. To see in sort alive, your Countries death? Yea, what soever even Death it self withdraws From any else, that life with draws from you. Yet since your highness is so fully bent, I will obey, the while assuage your grief Exit.