O with that fruit go cautiously to work.
Too much of it is hurtful, sours the humours,
Makes the blood melancholy.
TEMPLAR.
And if I
Choose to be melancholy—For this warning
You were not sent to follow me, I ween.
FRIAR.
Oh, no: I only was to ask about you,
And feel your pulse a little.
TEMPLAR.
And you tell me
Of that yourself?
FRIAR.
Why not?
TEMPLAR.