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Sweet, happy Constance, tell me why thou sighest.
What can’st thou lack?
CONSTANCE.
I am not very happy.
Mar. Not happy, thou? Woe for the world! I thought
Love was God’s perfect recipe, to drowse
All mortal stings. Yet sainted marriage hath
One threat—the loss of liberty: is’t that?
It well may fright. To have been a girl with me