280 Be certain, nothing truer; ’tis no jest
That I do hate thee, and love Helena.
[282] Her. O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom!
You thief of love! what, have you come by night
And stolen my love’s heart from him?
Hel.
Fine, i’faith!
285 Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,
No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear
Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?