Miranda. O, my sweet prince, my husband Ferdinand,
In truth I am not well, and yet I am,
And yet again I am not. What say I?
It is no fever of the blood, no pain
That speaks in sharp besetment which doth ail
Me now. Not these, and yet ’tis somewhat, still,
And when I bid it down ’twill not away.
Ferdinand. O lov’d Miranda, ope thy soul to me.
Miranda. ’Tis silly, sooth, too simple for your ear
To heed ’t, and I unworthy of your love