See, where he comes again; O, how I love
And hate that man! Now help me, pride, and fill
My breast with scorn; and pr'ythee, tongue, take heed
You do not falter: hear not, my heart, that will
Distract thy speech, and so betray my feign'd
Unkindness.
Duke. What, Amphelia all alone?
Weary of your new love already? can't
You pass away the time with him one hour?
Amph. Were he
No finer man than yourself, to be with him
A minute, I should think a
Seven years' penance.
Good heart, lie still, and let my tongue alone. [Aside.
I wonder what a woman can see in you,
Or hear from you, to make her love you.
(I was just going to have said, hate him.) [Aside.
O, what a task is this! therefore let me
Advise you to have a mean opinion
Of yourself.
Duke. Methinks that advice might serve
For yourself. Ha, ha, ha!
Amph. Have patience, heart, I know I lie: thou need'st
Not tell me so—I had better then confess
My love. [Aside.] Do you laugh, duke? [i']faith
So could I at you, till the tears ran down
My cheeks—that they would quickly do, for grief
Would fain unload my eyes.
I must begone,
I cannot longer act this part, unless
I had a heart as hard as his. [Aside.
Duke. What, you are going
Now to your love Ortellus?
Amph. I am so,
And going from you to him, is pleasure double,
Not only pain, to quit, but joy to meet.
Duke. Make haste then, for your departure will oblige
Me too, so we shall be all pleas'd!
Amph. Haste I will make, but with unwilling feet:
For every step from him my grief repeats. [Aside. Exit.
Duke. She's gone, and after her my heart is flown,
'Tis well it has no tongue to make its moan;
Then 'twould discover what my pride conceals,
A heart in love (though slighted) love reveals.
Yet though I love her still, she shall not know;
Her hate shall seem my joy, which is my woe.
My constancy I'll outwardly disguise,
Though here within I am not half so wise.
Yet rather than disclose my doating fate,
I'll wound my heart by counterfeiting hate.
To whine, it wou'd the worst of follies prove,
Since women only pity when they love.
With how much scorn she gave me welcome home,
Ortellus in her hand, to show my doom!
Me and my triumphs she did so despise,
As if they'd been unworthy of her eyes.
'Tis well to her I show'd as much disdain;
I'd rather perish than she guess my pain.
But O, the horrid act she makes me do,
To fool a woman that is young and true!
So damn'd a sin, that hell could not invent,
It is too foul for any punishment;
To question those above I am afraid,
Else I would ask them, why they woman made.