He’s mad, and mad for love of you.
Oph.—
O la!
How very nice! can madmen marry, Pa?
Pol.—
Doubtless, my daughter. Nay, it has been said
None are quite compos when about to wed.
I do remember much confusion here [pointing to forehead]
When first I called your future mother “dear,”
Saw Hymen’s torch-light in her glowing e’e,