Julia. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if ’tis for love of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening.
John. You’d best go and ask it of his self, mistress. ’Tis a smartish lot of work as I’ve got to attend to here.
Julia. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you.
John. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a-buzzin round a man’s head.
Julia. Now, John—you must tell me which of the two it is. Is it Laura whom your master loves, or Julia?
John. ’Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me.
Julia. No, John, you’re not looking straight at me. You are looking down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine.
John. [Looking up crossly.] I’ve got my work to think of. I’m not one to stand cackling with a maid.
Julia. Could you swear me it is Julia?
John. ’Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide over, so as I can get the watering finished.