Ant. Not a word, what can he mean by this?
Ism. Sir, will you please to sit a while?
Isab. Madam, the inner Chamber is much better,
For there he may repose upon the Cushions
Till my Lord’s return; I see he is not well—
—And you are both sick of one Disease. Aside.
Alb. I thank you, here’s more Air,
—And that I need, for I am all on fire, Aside.
And every Look adds fuel to my flame.
—I must avoid those Eyes, whose Light misguides me: