Orle. Sweet friend, she speaks this but to torture me.
Gall. I’ll teach thee how to plague her: love her not.
Agrip. Poor Orleans, how lamentably he looks: if he stay, he’ll make me surely love him for pure pity. I must send him hence, for of all sorts of love, I hate the French; I pray thee, sweet prisoner, entreat Lord Longaville to come to me presently.
Orle. I will, and esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me. [Exit.
Agrip. Watch him, watch him for God’s sake, if he sigh not or look not back.
Cypr. He does both: but what mystery lies in this?
Agrip. Nay, no mystery, ’tis as plain as Cupid’s forehead: why this is as it should be.—“And esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me.” My French prisoner is in love over head and ears.
Cypr. It’s wonder how he ’scapes drowning.
Gall. With whom, think you?
Agrip. With his keeper, for a good wager: Ah, how glad is he to obey! And how proud am I to command in this empire of affection! Over him and such spongy-livered youths, that lie soaking in love, I triumph more with mine eye, than ever he did over a soldier with his sword. Is’t not a gallant victory for me to subdue my father’s enemy with a look? Prince of Cyprus, you were best take heed, how you encounter an English lady.