CHORUS.
Queen, but what is it that hath burnt thine heart?
For thy speech flickers like a brown-out flame.
ALTHAEA.
Look, ye say well, and know not what ye say,
For all my sleep is turned into a fire,
And all my dreams to stuff that kindles it.
CHORUS.
Yet one doth well being patient of the gods.
ALTHAEA.
Yea, lest they smite us with some four-foot plague.
CHORUS.
But when time spreads find out some herb for it.