MERCY
ALL 'S WELL THAT WELL. Act. I Sc. i.
Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,
Exctssive grief the enemy to the living. 1
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA Act. iv. Sc. ix.
O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,
The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,
That life, a very rebel to my will,
May hang no longer on me : throw my heart
Against the flint and hardness of my fault,
Which,, being dried with grief, will break to powder,
And finish all foul thoughts. 2
Sc. xiii.
Noblest of men, woo't die ?
Hast thou no care of me ? Shall I abide
In this dull world, which in thy absence is
No better than a sty ? O ! see, my women,
The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord !
O, withered, is the garland of the war,
The soldier's pole is fallen : young boys and girls
Are level now with men ; the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon. 3
