_Ele_. This is a new language. _Hen_.

Have you not heard men have been killd with Joy? Our griefe doth but contract the heart, &gladnesse Dilate the same; and soo too much of eyther Is hott i'th' fourth degree. _Ele_. Sir, your discourse Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not With that you usd but now: if we can practize A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't.

-What doe you, Sir? _Hen_. Looke on thee. _Ele_.

Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall. Are you well? _Hen_. Well, never better.

_Ele_. Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse! How doth my father? _Hen_. He's very well, too; feare not.

_Ele_. Still I read in your eyes- _Hen_. What Babyes[22], prety one? Thy owne face, naught else; I receive that way all this beauty into My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke Out at the window.