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Sil.

The more shame for him that he sends it me;

For I have heard him say a thousand times

His Julia gave it him at his departure:

Though his false finger have profan’d the ring,

Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.

Jul.

She thanks you.

Sil.

What say’st thou?

Jul.

I thank you, madam, that you tender her.

Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much.

Sil.

Dost thou know her?

Jul.

Almost as well as I do know myself.

To think upon her woes I do protest

That I have wept a hundred several times.

Sil.

Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her?

Jul.

I think she doth; and that’s her cause of sorrow.

Sil.

Is she not passing fair?

Jul.

She hath been fairer, madam, than she is:

When she did think my master lov’d her well,

She, in my judgment, was as fair as you;

But since she did neglect her looking-glass,

And threw her sun-expelling mask away,

The air hath starv’d the roses in her cheeks,

And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face,

That now she is become as black as I.