Page 2309 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words, [1105]
Sometime ’tis mad and too much talk affords.

The little birds that tune their moning’s joy
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody,
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;

Sad souls are slain in merry company, [1110]
Grief best is pleas’d with grief’s society:
True sorrow then is feelingly suffic’d

When with like semblance it is sympathis’d.

’Tis double death to drown in ken of shore;

He ten times pines that pines beholding food; [1115]
To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;

Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Who being stopp’d, the bounding bank o’erflows;
Grief dallied with, nor law nor limit knows. [1120]

«You mocking birds», quoth she, «your tunes entomb
Within your hollow swelling feather’d breasts,

And in my hearing be you mute and dumb;
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests.
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests. [1125]
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears;

Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with tears.

«Come Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my dishevel’d hair;
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, [1130]
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear

And with deep groans the diapason bear;
For burden-wise I’ll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descants better skill.

«And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part [1135]
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I