Alice. What a letter
Has this thing written, how it roars like thunder!
With what a state he enters into stile!
Dear Mistress.
Dor. Out upon him bedlam.
Alice. Well, there be waies to reach her yet: such likeness
As you two carry me thinks.
Dor. I am mad too,
And yet can apprehend ye: fare ye well,
The fool shall now fish for himself.
Alice. Be sure then
His tewgh be tith and strong: and next no swearing,
He'l catch no fish else, Farewel Dol.
Dor. Farewel Alice. [Exeunt.
[Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.]
Enter Valentine, Alice, and Cellide.
Cel. Indeed he's much chang'd, extreamly alter'd,
His colour faded strangely too.