Do plaine enough her heart vnfained proue,
Equally toucht, you louing, as you loue.
Ant. Well; be her loue to me or false, or true,
Once in my soule a cureles wound I feele.
I loue, nay burne in fire of her loue:
Each day, each night her Image haunts my minde,
Her selfe my dreams: and still I tired am,
And still I am with burning pincers nipt.
Extreame my harme: yet sweeter to my sence
Then boiling Torch of iealouse torments fire: