Prince. Ah, Celio, so strange a thing is love,
The sighs you think are melancholy sighs,
Yet are not so; I have indeed drunk poison,
But love the taste of it.
Cel. I used to think
’Twas all of being away from your Porcia;
But now when better starr’d, her brother absent;
Her father unsuspicious, at her bidding
Night after night you come beneath her lattice,
And yet—