At seventeen years many their fortunes seek; But at fourscore it is too late a week: Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love: But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure; and I’ll employ thee too: But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.
There are no more uses of "recompense" in the play.
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It was wonderful to be twenty-two and a little drunk, knowing that all went well at the writing desk, shiveringly happy in the clutch of one’s own creative ardor and in that "grand certitude" Thomas Wolfe was always hymning—the certitude that the wellsprings of youth would never run dry, and that the wrenching anguish endured in the crucible of art would find its recompense in everlasting fame, and glory, and the love of beautiful women.