Gycia.

Ah! then I know 'tis true.

Confess what manner of thing love is.

Ire. Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping), Gycia;

Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?

Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more

Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell

By day and night on one fixed madding thought,

Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart

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Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget

All that it loved before, faith, duty, country,

Friendship, affection—everything but love.

Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it,

Be happier than I.

Gycia.

My poor Irene!

Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.

I do repent that I have tortured thee

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