Fools at the best, but double fools in love.
We rage at first with ill-dissembled scorn;
Then, falling from our height, more basely mourn;
And man, the insulting tyrant, takes his turn,
Leaves us to weep for our neglected charms,
And hugs another mistress in his arms;
And, that which humbles our proud sex the most,
Of all our slighted favours makes his boast. [Exit Cassandra.
Enter Cleomenes.
Cleom. Her words, her every look, confess she loves me;