BEL. Pay that you borrow'd, and recover it.
BAL. I die if it return from whence it lies.
BEL. A heartless man, and live? A miracle!
BAL. Aye, lady, love can work such miracles.
LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let go these ambages,
And in plain terms acquaint her with your love.
BEL. What boots complaint, when there's no remedy?
BAL. Yes, to your gracious self must I complain,
In whose fair answer lies my remedy,
On whose perfection all my thoughts attend,
On whose aspect mine eyes find beauty's bower,
In whose translucent breast my heart is lodg'd.
BEL. Alas, my lord! These are but words of course,
And but devis'd to drive me from this place.
She, going in, lets fall her glove, which
HORATIO, coming out, takes up.
HOR. Madame, your glove.