Mar. Madam, you are strange.
La. Alb. Ay, Margaret, and strangest to myself.
O, he is true! Dear God, I know he's true!
Mar. Make it no question then. For by the sun,
And heaven's starry clock that now goes by,
You shall not say he's false to Margaret!
La. Alb. To you? Ha! false to you? Dost think my thoughts
Must ever web round you?
Mar. [Going] You are his sister.