Whence flow those tears fast down thy blubber'd cheeks,
Like a swoln gutter, gushing through the streets?

[Footnote 1: Phraortes, in the Captives, seems to have been acquainted
with King Arthur:

Proclaim a festival for seven days' space,
Let the court shine in all its pomp and lustre,
Let all our streets resound with shouts of joy;
Let musick's care-dispelling voice be heard;
The sumptuous banquet and the flowing goblet
Shall warm the cheek and fill the heart with gladness.
Astarbe shall sit mistress of the feast.

]

[Footnote 2:

Repentance frowns on thy contracted brow.--_Sophonisba_.

Hung on his clouded brow, I mark'd despair.--_Ibid_.

--A sullen gloom
Scowls on his brow.--_Busiris_.
]


_Queen_. [1]Excess of joy, my lord, I've heard folks say,
Gives tears as certain as excess of grief.