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But mak'st thy after-sorrow more acute When these vain fancies fail.

Aur. And let them fail: tho' duller thoughts succeed, The bliss e'en of a moment still is bliss.

Because her glory will not last till noon; Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt, Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't! If this be wise, 'tis cruel.

Aur. Thanks, gentle Viola; thou art ever kind. We'll think to-morrow still hath good in store, And make of this a blessing for to-day, Tho' good Terentia there may chide us for it.

Ter. And thus a profitable life you'll lead, Which hath no present time, but is made up Entirely of to-morrows.

Aur. Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll worship still The blessed morrow, storehouse of all good For wretched folks. They who lament to-day, May then rejoice: they who in misery bend E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed. O! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours May of returning joy contain? To-morrow! The blest to-morrow! cheering, kind to-morrow! I were a heathen not to worship thee. (To Ter.) Frown not again; we must not wrangle now.

Ter. Thou dost such vain and foolish fancies cherish, Thou forcest me to seem unkind and stern.