this excessive grief, and drink a cup with me when thou hast passed beyond these doors and wreathed thy brow; and I feel sure the plash of wine within the cup will bring thee to a better haven from this crabbed mood, this cabined state of mind.[1] Mortals we are, and mortals' thoughts should have; for all they who frown and scowl do miss,—leastways I think so,—the true life and get themselves misfortune.
Att. I know all that, but our present state has little claim on revelry or laughter.
Her. The dead was a stranger woman; grieve not to excess; for the rulers of thy house are living.
Att. How, living? Thou knowest not the trouble in the house.
Her. I do, unless thy master did in aught deceive me.
Att. Too hospitable is he.
Her. Was I to miss good cheer because a stranger had died?
Att. A stranger surely! quite a stranger she!
Her. Is there some trouble that he withheld from me?
Att. Farewell, go thy way! my master's troubles are my care.
Her. This word of thine heralds not a grief for strangers felt.
Att. Had it been, the sight of thy merriment had not grieved me so.
Her.[2] Can it be mine host hath strangely wronged me?
Att. Thou camest at no proper time for our house to welcome thee, for sorrow is come upon us; lo! thou seest our shorn heads and robes of sable hue.
Her. Who is it that is dead? Is it a child or his aged sire that hat hath passed away?
Att. Nay, sir guest, 'tis Admetus' wife that is no more.
