Classic Poem

  A . And this is all a fiction?
  B . Ay, 'tis thus
Men shadow out the truth when they are sad.
They say but ill, who tell us that Grief speaks
In household phrases. Friend, she is a queen,
Pale Tragedy by name, who sears our brain,
Until it fashions forth fantastic shapes,
Unnatural to the eye which hath no tears,
But seen through those, are true like other things
Which misty distance veils and magnifies.