Ele. Sir, your discourse
Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not
With that you usd but now: if we can practize
A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't.
—What doe you, Sir?
Hen. Looke on thee.
Ele. Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall. Are you well?
Hen. Well, never better.
Ele. Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse! How doth my father?
Hen. He's very well, too; feare not.
Ele. Still I read in your eyes—
Hen. What Babyes[22], prety one? Thy owne face, naught else;
I receive that way all this beauty into
My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke
Out at the window. Come, Ile winke againe,
It shall not trouble you:—hence my trayterous thoughts.
Ele. Indeed you are not well.
Hen. Indeed I am not; all's not well within me.
Why should I be a villaine? Eleonora
Doe not looke on me; turne those eyes away,
They would betray thee to thy sorrow; or
Lett me by parting carry along with me
That which to know undoes thee.