Hip. Now, I suspect that love's the very thing, That I feel too!—Pray tell me truly, sir, Are you not grown unquiet since you saw her?
Ferd. I take no rest.
Hip. Just, just, my disease.— Do you not wish, you do not know for what?
Ferd. O, no! I know too well for what I wish.
Hip. There, I confess, I differ from you, sir: But you desire she may be always with you?
Ferd. I can have no felicity without her.
Hip. Just my condition.—Alas, gentle sir! I'll pity you, and you shall pity me.
Ferd. I love so much, that, if I have her not, I find I cannot live.
Hip. How! do you love her, And would you have her too? That must not be: For none but I must have her.
Ferd. But perhaps we do not love the same: All beauties are not pleasing alike to all.