Prince. If Porcia be not the cause
Of my complaint she cannot be the cure:
Yet (such is love’s pathology) she serves
To soothe the wound another made.
Cel. Who then was she, my lord, for whose fair sake
You cannot either love this loving lady,
Nor leave her?
Prince. I would tell you, Celio,
But you would laugh at me.
Cel. Tell me, however.