JAILER.
I do not think she was very well, for now
You make me mind her, but this very day
I asked her questions, and she answered me
So far from what she was, so childishly,
So sillily, as if she were a fool,
An innocent, and I was very angry.
But what of her, sir?
WOOER.
Nothing but my pity.
But you must know it, and as good by me
As by another that less loves her.
JAILER.
Well, sir?
FIRST FRIEND.
Not right?
SECOND FRIEND.
Not well?
WOOER.
No, sir, not well:
’Tis too true, she is mad.
FIRST FRIEND.
It cannot be.
WOOER.
Believe, you’ll find it so.
JAILER.
I half suspected
What you have told me. The gods comfort her!
Either this was her love to Palamon,
Or fear of my miscarrying on his ’scape,
Or both.
WOOER.
’Tis likely.