Guard. No, nor sick, nor mad, nor in my wits, nor sleeping, nor waking, nor nothing, nor any thing; I know not what I am, nor what I am not.
Mir. Mercy cover us, what do you mean, Aunt?
Guard. I mean to be reveng'd.
Mir. On whom?
Guard. On thee Baggage.
Mir. Revenge should follow injury,
Which never reacht so far as thought in me
Towards you Aunt.
Guard. Your cunning, minion,
Nor your Cuningame; can either blind me,
The gentle Beggar loves you.
Mir. Beseech you,
Let me stay your error, I begin to hear,
And shake off my amazement; if you think
That ever any passage treating love
Hath been betwixt us yet commenc'd, any
Silent eye-glance that might but sparkle fire,
So much as Brother and Sister might meet with,
The Lip-salute, so much as strangers might
Take a farewel with, the commixed hands,
Nay, but the least thought of the least of these;
In troth you wrong your bosom, by that truth
(Which I think yet you durst be bail for in me,
If it were offer'd ye) I am as free
As all this protestation.
Guard. May I believe this?
Mir. If ever you'll believe truth: why, I thought he had
spoke love to you, and if his heart prompted his tongue, sure
I did hear so much.