Jonson:
[Shrugging his shoulders.] H’m. You’re not cured yet!
Shakespeare:
Hush! [Hastens to door and listens, opens it; drops his hands in despair, shuts it again, turns into the room.] Damn her!
Jonson:
Love, you know——
Shakespeare:
[Stops in front of him.] Is it love or hate? Sometimes I hate her—sometimes she is coarse to me, obstinate and vain, soulless as a drab, sometimes [Puts his hands to his face.] the rose of women. [Throws himself in a seat.] I pass my time in waiting for her, thinking of her: I am degraded into a brute-desire. She writes, “I will be with you in an hour,” that is three hours agone; she is not here yet, and may not come to-day; damn her!
Jonson:
Why don’t you work; put her out of mind: forget her?