All this I know: yet a strange peevishness and anger,
not to have the power to do things unexpected, carries me away to mine own
ruine: I had rather die sometimes than not disgrace in public him whom
people think I love, and do't with oaths, and am in earnest then: O what
are we! Men, you must answer this, that dare obey such things as we
command. How now? what newes?
_Enter_ Abigal.
_Abi_. Faith Madam none worth hearing.
_Lady_. Is he not come?
_Abi_. No truly.
_Lady_. Nor has he writ?
_Abigal_. Neither. I pray God you have not undone your self.
_Lady_. Why, but what saies he?
_Abi_. Faith he talks strangely.
_Lady_. How strangely?
_Abi_. First at your Letter he laught extremely.
_Lady_. What, in contempt?
_Abi._ He laught monstrous loud, as he would die, and when you wrote it I
think you were in no such merry mood, to provoke him that way: and having
done he cried Alas for her, and violently laught again.
_Lady._ Did he?
_Abi._ Yes, till I was angry.
_Lady._ Angry, why? why wert thou angry? he did doe but well, I did
deserve it, he had been a fool, an unfit man for any one to love, had he
not laught thus at me: you were angry, that show'd your folly; I shall
love him more for that, than all that ere he did before: but said he
nothing else?
_Abi.
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