Abra. Yet she might love me for my lovely eyes.
C. Fred. Ay, but perhaps your nose she doth despise.
Abra. Yet might she love me for my dimpled chin.
Pen. Ay, but she sees your beard is very thin.
Abra. Yet might she love me for my proper body.
Strange. Ay, but she thinks you are an errant noddy.
Abra. Yet might she love me, 'cause I am an heir.
Sir J. Wor. Ay, but perhaps she doth not like your ware.
Abra. Yet might she love me in despite of all.
Luc. Ay, but indeed I cannot love at all.