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Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,

To be seduced by thy flattery,

That hast deceiv’d so many with thy vows?

Return, return, and make thy love amends.

For me (by this pale queen of night I swear),

I am so far from granting thy request,

That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,

And by and by intend to chide myself

Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

Pro.

I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;

But she is dead.

Jul. [Aside.]

’Twere false, if I should speak it;

For I am sure she is not buried.

Sil.

Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend

Survives; to whom (thyself art witness)

I am betroth’d; and art thou not asham’d

To wrong him with thy importunacy?

Pro.

I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

Sil.

And so suppose am I; for in [his] grave

Assure thyself my love is buried.

Pro.

Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

Sil.

Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence,

Or at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.

Jul. [Aside.]

He heard not that.

Pro.