Your pulses throb and flutter, reeling still
Under the storm of such a dream--

SEG.
A dream!
That seem'd as swearable reality
As what I wake in now.

CLO.
Ay--wondrous how
Imagination in a sleeping brain
Out of the uncontingent senses draws
Sensations strong as from the real touch;
That we not only laugh aloud, and drench
With tears our pillow; but in the agony
Of some imaginary conflict, fight
And struggle--ev'n as you did; some, 'tis thought,
Under the dreamt-of stroke of death have died.

SEG.
And what so very strange too--In that world
Where place as well as people all was strange,
Ev'n I almost as strange unto myself,
You only, you, Clotaldo--you, as much
And palpably yourself as now you are,
Came in this very garb you ever wore,
By such a token of the past, you said,
To assure me of that seeming present.

CLO.