PANDARUS.
He? No, she’ll none of him; they two are twain.
HELEN.
Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
PANDARUS.
Come, come. I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now.
HELEN.
Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead.
PANDARUS.
Ay, you may, you may.
HELEN.
Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!
PANDARUS.
Love! Ay, that it shall, i’ faith.
PARIS.
Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
PANDARUS.
In good troth, it begins so.
[Sings.]