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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. Ay?

SEG. Ay; and even told me of the very stars

You