Hadst thou a loose and wanton Sister too,
Then thou wert perfect wretched, as I am. [Weeps.
But prithee leave me, now I think of it:
For shouldst thou stay, thou’dst rob me of my Anger;
For since a Youth like thee can be unhappy,
With such a Shape, and so divine a Face,
Methinks I should not quarrel with my Star,
But bow to all my faithless Mistress’ Scorns.
[Hollowing within.] So ho, ho, so ho, ho—
Mar. So ho, so ho, ho, ho—’Tis my false Rival.