Chrysanthus. 
Was ever human fate so strange as mine? 
  Were unmatched wishes ever mated so? 
  Is it not enough to feel one form of woe,
Without being forced ’neath opposite forms to pine? 
A triune God’s mysterious power divine,
  From heaven I ask for life, that I may know,
  From heaven I ask for death, life’s grisly foe,
A fair one’s favour in my heart to shrine: 
But how can death and life so well agree,
  That I can ask of heaven to end their strife,
And grant them both in pitying love to me? 
  Yet I will ask, though both with risks are rife,
Neither shall hinder me, for heaven must be
  The arbiter of death as well as life.

Polemius. 
See now if I spoke the truth.

Claudius. 
I am utterly distracted. (The door closes.

Polemius. 
Lest perhaps he should perceive us,
Let us move a little further. 
Now advise me how to act,
Since you see the grief that racks me.

Claudius. 
Though it savours of presumption
To white hairs like yours, to hazard
Words of council, yet at times
Even a young man may impart them: 
Well-proportioned punishment
Grave defects oft counteracteth. 
But when carried to extremes,
It but irritates and hardens. 
Any instrument of music
Of this truth is an example. 
Lightly touched, it breathes but sweetness,
Discord, when ’t is roughly handled. 
’T is not well to send an arrow
To such heights, that in discharging
The strong tension breaks the bowstring,
Or the bow itself is fractured. 
These two simple illustrations
Are sufficiently adapted
To my purpose, of advising
Means of cure both mild and ample. 
You must take a middle course,
All extremes must be abandoned. 
Gentle but judicious treatment
Is the method for Chrysanthus. 
For severer methods end in
Disappointment and disaster. 
Take him, then, from out his prison,
Leave him free, unchecked, untrammelled,
For the danger is an infant
Without strength to hurt or harm him. 
Be it that those wretched Christians
Have bewitched him, disenchant him,
Since you have the power; for Nature
With such careful forethought acteth,
That an antidotal herb
She for every poison planteth. 
And if, finally, your wish
Is that he this fatal sadness
Should forget, and wholly change it
To a happier state and gladder,
Get him married:  for remember
Nothing is so well adapted
To restrain discursive fancies
As the care and the attachment
Centered in a wife and children;
Taking care that in this matter
Mere convenience should not weigh
More than his own taste and fancy: 
Let him choose his wife himself. 
Pleased in that, to rove or ramble
Then will be beyond his power,
Even were he so attracted,
For a happy married lover
Thinks of naught except his rapture.