Alb. A woman’s constancy.
Ros. Good, why, would’st thou have us sluts, and never shift
The vesture of our thoughts? Away for shame.
Alb. O no, th’art too constant to afflict my heart,
Too too firm fixèd in unmovèd scorn.
Ros. Pish, pish; I fixed in unmovèd scorn!
Why, I’ll love thee to-night.
Alb. But whom to-morrow?
Ros. Faith, as the toy puts me in the head.
Bal. And pleased the marble heavens, now would I might be the toy, to put you in the head, kindly to conceit my—my—my—pray you, give in an epithet for love.
Feli. Roaring, roaring. 232
Bal.[96] O love, thou hast murder’d me, made me a shadow, and you hear not Balurdo, but Balurdo’s ghost.
Ros. Can a ghost speak?