Mis. No strange signe of alteration; hum.
Swa. Beyond imagination.
Mis. How, good Swash?
Swa. Why, from a Fencer, you’re turn’d Orator.
Mis. Oh! Cedunt arma Togæ; that’s no wonder.
Perceiu’st thou nothing else? Looke I not pale?
Are not my armes infolded? my eyes fixt,
My head deiected, my words passionate,
And yet perceiu’st thou nothing?
Swash. Let me see, me thinkes, you looke Sir, like some