Am. You are the first in my Virgin-conscience
That e'r spoke Love to her: oh, my heart!
Ant. How do you?
Am. Nothing Sir: but would I had a better face.
How well your pulse beats.
Ant. Healthfully, does it not?
Am. It thumps prettily, methinks.
Ism. Alack, I hear it
With much pity: how great is your fault too,
In wrong to the good Lady!
Mar. You forget
The difficult passage he has to her,
A hell of feud's between the Families.
Ism. And that has often Love wrought by advantage
To peaceful reconcilement.
Mar. There impossible.
Ism. This way 'tis worser; 't may seed again in her
Unto another generation:
For where (poor Lady) is her satisfaction?