Phil. This is no common sickness.
Theo. How have I left
All I should love, or keep? oh heaven.
Phil. Sir?
Theo. Ha?
Phil. How do you gentle Sir?
Theo. Alas my fortune!
Phil. It seems your sorrow oppresses: please your goodness,
Let me bear half, Sir: a divided burthen
Is so made lighter.
Theo. Oh!
Phil. That sigh betraies
The fulness of your grief.
Theo. I, if that grief
Had not bereft me of my understanding,
I should have well remembred where I was,
And in what company; and clapt a lock
Upon this tongue for talking.