I suffer, like him, stoned to death.
Tec. 'Tis so no more; for like the wild south-west,
Without the lightning's flash,
He now is lulled to rest;
And now, in his right mind,
New form of grief is his;
For to look out on ills that are one's own,260
In which another's hand has had no share,
This bringeth sharpest woe.
Chor. If he has rest he sure will prosper well.
Slight count we make of ills already gone.
Tec. Which would'st thou choose, if one should give thee choice,
Or vexing friends, thyself to feel delight,
Or sharing common griefs to mourn with them?
Chor. The double evil, lady, is the worse.
Tec. We then, though mad no longer, suffer more.
Chor. How say'st thou this? I know not what thou say'st.270
Tec. That man, when he was in his dire disease,
Himself rejoiced in all the ills he did,
But vexed our souls that reason still obeyed;
But now, when lulled and calmed from that attack,
He is sore haunted with a troublous grief,
And we with him are suffering nothing less.
Have we not here a twofold ill for one?
Chor. I own it also, and I fear lest stroke
Smite him from God. How else, if he, though cured,
Is just as far from joy as when diseased?280
Tec. So stands it, and 'tis right that thou should'st know.
Chor. How did the evil first swoop down on him?
Tell it to us who grieve at thy mischance.
Tec. Thou shalt learn all, as one who shares our woe;
