Agrip. What will my gentle Andelocia do?
Andel. Oh, now you come to your old bias of cogging.[394]
Agrip. I pray thee, Andelocia, let me go:
Send me to England, and by Heaven I swear,
Thou from all kings on earth my love shalt bear.
Andel. Shall I in faith?
Agrip. In faith, in faith thou shalt.
Andel. Hear, God a mercy: now thou shalt not go.
Agrip. Oh God.
Andel. Nay, do you hear, lady? Cry not, y’are best; no nor curse me not. If you think but a crabbed thought of me, the spirit that carried you in mine arms through the air, will tell me all; therefore set your Sunday face upon’t. Since you’ll love me, I’ll love you, I’ll marry you, and lie with you, and beget little jugglers: marry, home you get not. England, you’ll say, is yours: but, Agripyne, love me, and I will make the whole world thine.
Agrip. I care not for the world, thou murd’rest me;
Between my sorrow, and the scalding sun
I faint, and quickly will my life be done,
My mouth is like a furnace, and dry heat
Drinks up my blood. O God, my heart will burst,
I die, unless some moisture quench my thirst.
Andel. ’Sheart, now I am worse than ere I was before:
For half the world I would not have her die.
Here’s neither spring nor ditch, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor bread nor drink: my lovely Agripyne,
Be comforted, see here are apple trees.