Were aught but passion? You count not the tears,
The bitter, secret tears, for every pang
Your wrongs have wrought in me; and bitterer far,
The sharp remorse for each retaliation
Of speech provoked in anger. Let it end;
’Tis best I go.
Ner.See! if you had gone before
We had never quarrelled; now there’s nought to lose
By going, ’tis a quarrel that you go.
Agr. No quarrel, nay. ’Tis only this: I thought