Anselmo. Truly, of many, and 'tis somewhat cold.
Marin. Then, sirs, I care to hear no more,
But will e'en wait your worships at the door. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Room in the Palace of the Lord of Verona.
Count Paris, in mourning, and Lord of Verona.
Paris. From out this sable grief no gleam
Of dawning gladness dare I even dream.
Verona. He who reasons with discretion, Count,
Will find that Fortune rests upon a globe.
The mounting waves do ripple at her feet,
Now shouting with the storm, now smiling in the calm:
And thus dame Fortune leads us on to death,
Crowns evil with success, and joy doth nurse with woe.
Count. Sir, I am well advised
That were I master of a thousand worldly joys,
And by her fickleness did lose them all,
I'd laugh as loud as Democritus e'er did.
But that sweet angel now lies dead
Who made me joyous for a day—sweet bride!
The city mourns her as a sister dead.
My courage limps beneath the pressure of my woe.
Had she but lived a year—a month—
A week—a day—some consolation I might know
In place of anguish deep:
But holding thus the heavy hand of woe,
The force of fate doth bear me on to where
Death's silent shadows fall. To bear
Such woe doth need a heart of bronze.
Verona. 'Twas wisely order'd from above.
