She could not so mistake him. ’Tis but fancy,
Which jealousy hath magnified to passion:
And now she eyes him as the fox the grapes,
And rather than be crossed, she’ll be persuaded
That he’s an idiot. That’s not honest love,—
Fanciful consolations are the comfort
Of fancied passion,—love needs better food.
Re-enter Diana.
D. How now, Ricardo? I have not done laughing yet.
What of my ingenious secretary? I think