Page:Castelvines y Monteses Translated.pdf/105

84  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.  

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. 