May little be. But Frederick doth not feign.
Nay if he feigned he would not hide it from me:
And loved he not another, he would be
More open to my meaning when I try him
With such unveilings of my inclination
As make me blush alone. O perverse love,
At once triumphant and inscrutable,
Palpable and impotent. What if he knows
I love him, and yet loves me not, but loves
Another, a rival? But if he knows not,