And boast not of thy conquest over me, 200

200

Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery!

For what hast thou to countenance my love,

Being descended of a noble house,

And matched already with a gentleman

Whose servant thou may’st be!—and so farewell.

Mosbie. Ungentle and unkind Alice, now I see

That which I ever feared, and find too true:

A woman’s love is as the lightning-flame,

Which even in bursting forth consumes itself.

To try thy constancy have I been strange; 210

210

Would I had never tried, but lived in hope!

Alice. What need’st thou try me whom thou ne’er found false?

Mosbie. Yet pardon me, for love is jealous.

Alice. So lists the sailor to the mermaid’s song,

[10]

So looks the traveller to the basilisk:

I am content for to be reconciled,

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