A jest, and then a trial, and a bait;
All stuff, and daubing!
Jup. Think me jealous, then.
Alcm. O that I could! for that's a noble crime,
And which a lover can with ease forgive;
'Tis the high pulse of passion in a fever;
A sickly draught, but shews a burning thirst:
Thine was a surfeit, not a jealousy;
And in that loathing of thy full-gorged love,
Thou saw'st the nauseous object with disdain.