[415] My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Ros. Sans sans, I pray you.
Biron.
Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage:—bear with me, I am sick;
I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see:
Write, ‘Lord have mercy on us’ on those three;
420 They are infected; in their hearts it lies;
[421] They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes;
These lords are visited; you are not free,