Enter the Prince of Cyprus and Agripyne.
Gall. See where they come together, hand in hand.
Orle. O watch, sweet Galloway, when their hands do part,
Between them shalt thou find my murdered heart.
Cypr. By this then it seems a thing impossible, to know when an English lady loves truly.
Agrip. Not so, for when her soul steals into her heart, and her heart leaps up to her eyes, and her eyes drop into her hands, then if she say, Here’s my hand! she’s your own,—else never.
Cyp. Here’s a pair of your prisoners, let’s try their opinion.
Agrip. My kind prisoners, well encountered; the Prince of Cyprus here and myself have been wrangling about a question of love: my lord of Orleans, you look lean, and likest a lover—Whether is it more torment to love a lady and never enjoy her, or always to enjoy a lady whom you cannot choose but hate?
Orle. To hold her ever in mine arms whom I loath in my heart, were some plague, yet the punishment were no more than to be enjoined to keep poison in my hand, yet never to taste it.
Agrip. But say you should be compelled to swallow the poison?