Ire.
Prithee, dear,
Speak not of this.
Gycia.
Ah! then I know 'tis true.
Confess what manner of thing love is.
Ire. Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping), Gycia;
Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?
Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more
Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell