Luc.
Fie, how impatience lowreth in your face!

Adr.
His company must do his minions grace,
Whilst I at home starve for a merry look:
Hath homely age th' alluring beauty took
From my poor cheek? then, he hath wasted it.
Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?
If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,
Unkindness blunts it, more than marble hard.
Do their gay vestments his affections bait?
That's not my fault: he's master of my state.
What ruins are in me, that can be found
By him not ruin'd? then, is he the ground
Of my defeatures. My decayed fair
A sunny look of his would soon repair.
But, too unruly dear, he breaks the pale,
And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

Luc.
Self harming jealousie!—fie, beat it hence.

Adr.
Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense:
I know, his eye doth homage other-where;
Or else what lets it, but he would be here?
Sister, you know he promis'd me a chain;
Would that alone, alone, he would detain,
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed.
^{1 note}

Will lose his beauty; and the gold bides still,
That others touch; yet often touching will
Wear gold: and so no man, that hath a name,
But falshood, and corruption, doth it shame.
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.

Luc.
How many fond fools serve mad jealousie! [Exeunt.

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