Good morrow, Benedick: why what’s the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?
Shaks.
Oh! I thought I should faint, when I saw him, dear mother,
Feel my pulse with one hand, with a watch in the other;
No token of death that is heard in the night
Could ever have put me so much in affright:
Thinks I—’tis all over—my sentence is past,