Jul. He plays false, father.
Host. How? out of tune on the strings?
Jul. Not so; but yet so false, that he grieves my very heart-strings.
Host. You have a quick ear.
Jul. Ay; I would I were deaf! it makes me have a slow heart.
Host. I perceive, you delight not in music.
Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so.
Host. Hark! what fine change is in the music.
Jul. Ay, that change (Proteus' unfaithfulness) is the spite.
Host (misunderstanding again). You would have them always play but one thing?