Pand.

Do you hear, my lord? do you hear?

Troi.

What now?

Pand.

Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.

Troi.

Let me read.

Pand.

A whorson ptisick, a whorson rascally ptisick so troubles me; and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing and what another, that I shall leave you one o'these days; and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ach in my bones, that unless a man were curst, I cannot tell what to think on't. What says she, there?

Troi.
Words, words, meer words; no matter from the heart.
Th' effect doth operate another way. [Tearing the letter.
Go wind to wind, there turn and change together:
My love with words and errors still she feeds;
But edifies another with her deeds.

Pand.
Why, but hear you—

Troi.
Hence, brothel, lacquy! ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life, and live ay with thy name. [Exeunt.

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