Enter Antonio, and stays him.
Ant. Whither in such haste?
Thou look’st e’en as sad as a Lover repuls’d,
I fear that Fate’s not thine.
Alb. Now for a lye to satisfy him. Aside.
Prithee discharge me of this toil of dissembling,
Of which I grow as weary as she’s of hearing it.
Ant. Indeed!
Alb. Sure thou hast a design to make her hate me.
Ant. Do you think so in earnest, why, was she angry?