Bert. No, ’tis a momentary pain that—but ’twill leave me soon. At night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial—joyous!—we’ll dance together, wench—ay, and sing—then—ha! ha! ha!—then who so mirthful, who so mad, as Bertrand. Exit.
Ros. What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm’d fit of melancholy; but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before.
Geraldine speaks without.
Ger. Rosabelle.
Ros. Here, my lady, in the hall.
Enter Geraldine.
Ger. Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed—you have dressed me vilely—here! remove these knots—I hate their fashion.
Ros. Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday.
Ger. Then ’tis the colour of my robe offends me—these ornaments are a false match to it—either all the mirrors in the house have warped since yesterday, or never did I look so ill before.
Ros. Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better.