Phil. All may be mended, in fit time too: speak it.
Theo. Alphonso, sir.
Phil. Alphonso? What's your own name?
Theo. Any base thing you can invent.
Phil. Deal truly.
Theo. They call me Theodosia.
Phil. Ha? and love
Is that that hath chang'd you thus?
Theo. Ye have observ'd me
Too nearly Sir, 'tis that indeed: 'tis love Sir:
And love of him (oh heavens) why should men deal thus?
Why should they use their arts to cozen us?
That have no cunning, but our fears about us?
And ever that too late too; no dissembling
Or double way but doating: too much loving?
Why should they find new oaths, to make more wretches?
Phil. What may his name be?
Theo. Sir, a name that promises
Methinks no such ill usage: Mark-Antonio
A noble neighbors son: Now I must desire ye
To stay a while: else my weak eyes must answer.