Enter Junius, Petillius and a Herald observing Junius.
Petill. Let him go on: stay, now he talks.
Jun. Why?
Why should I love mine enemie? what is beauty?
Of what strange violence, that like the plague,
It works upon our spirits? blind they feign him,
I am sure, I find it so.
Petill. A Dog shall lead ye.
Jun. His fond affections blinder.
Petill. Hold ye there still.
Jun. It takes away my sleep.
Petill. Alas, poor chicken.
Jun. My company, content; almost my fashion.
Petill. Yes, and your weight too, if you follow it.