Had it been a year—a month—a week—
A day—as love grew stronger so the pain
Should have grown more intense.
Count. Oh, that such bliss had but been mine!
I cannot cheat my grief, the soul will pine.
Enter a Servant and Antonio following.
Servant. With great Verona's noble Lord
Antonio Castelvin doth audience crave.
Verona (aside to Count). See with what courage he doth bear his woe!
Antonio. I come not, sir, to fill thine ears
With lamentations deep, nor yet with tears
To wring your soften'd hearts. Nor tell
How much in error cruel Death hath been
To respite one whose life hath spann'd
Some steps beyond the goal.
'Tis said that Love and Death a journey went
In winter—I marvel much that Love should journey thus
With one who could so chill his loving heat,
For death is wintry cold.—Howbeit, they journey'd on,
Until the hostelry in sight, there lying down
They slept well past the midnight-hours:
Rising in the misty light exchanged their darts,
And bidding each adieu did journey on
Their separate roads; and as they went,
Each fitted feathered shaft and twang'd his bow.
But after this the young men died,
And old men fell in love. The interchange
Once made could never be annull'd.
In mine own house now 'tis seen, alas!
My daughter Julia dead. Otavio, too,
