JOHN
Excellent lady,
Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
MARGARET (rising)
Go whither, John?
JOHN
Go in with me,
And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
MARGARET
That I will, John.—
(Exeunt.)
SCENE.—An inner Apartment.
(John is discovered kneeling.—Margaret standing over him.)
JOHN (rises)
I cannot bear
To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.
MARGARET
John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.
JOHN
They are gone.—
Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
I can smile too, and I almost begin
To understand what kind of creature Hope is.
MARGARET
Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.