“Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.”
“What is your will?”
“That I may fulfil yours.”
“You have your wish. My will is this: that you immediately go home to bed, you subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! Do you think I am so shallow, so witless, as to be won by your flattery—you, who have deceived so many with your vows! Return, return, and make amends to your own lady. As for me, I swear by this moon that I am so far from granting your request that I despise you for your wrongful suit, and could chide myself even for the time I spend in talking to you.”
“I grant that I did love a lady,” said Proteus, “but she is dead.”
“Supposing that she is, yet Valentine, your friend, is alive, to whom you yourself are witness that I am betrothed. Are you not ashamed to wrong him with this persistency?”
“I hear likewise that Valentine is dead.”
“Imagine, then, that I am also dead; for, be assured, my love is buried in his grave.”
“Sweet lady, let me take it from the earth.”
“Go to your own lady’s grave, and call her love thence, or, at least, bury your own in hers.”