My lord and master loves you: O, such love
[Could] be but recompensed, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!
Oli. How does he love me?
Vio. With [adorations, fertile] tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant;