My all of comfort, now, my Adelaide?

 Countess. Dear as she is, I would not have her all;

   For I should then be nothing. Time has been,

   When, after three long days of absence from you,

   You would have question'd me a thousand times,

   And bid me tell each trifle of myself;

   Then, satisfied at last, that all were well,

   At last, unwilling, turn to meaner cares.

 Count. This is the nature, still of womankind;

   If fondness be their mood, we must cast off

   All grave-complexion'd thought, and turn our souls

   Quite from their tenour, to wild levity;

   Vary with all their humours, take their hues,

   As unsubstantial Iris from the sun:

[pg 16]

[pg 16]

   Our bosoms are their passive instruments;

   Vibrate their strain, or all our notes are discord.

 Countess. Oh, why this new unkindness? From thy lips

   Never till now fell such ungentle words,

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