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What though I be not so in grace as you,

So hung upon with love, so fortunate

(But miserable most, to love unlov’d)?

This you should pity rather than despise.

Her.

I understand not what you mean by this.

Hel.

Ay, do! persever, counterfeit sad looks,

Make mouths upon me when I turn my back,

Wink each at other, hold the sweet jest up;

This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.

If you have any pity, grace, or manners,

You would not make me such an argument.

But fare ye well; ’tis partly my own fault,

Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.

Lys.

Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse,

My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!

Hel.

O excellent!

Her.

Sweet, do not scorn her so.

Dem.

If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

Lys.

Thou canst compel no more than she entreat.

Thy threats have no more strength than her weak [prays].

Helen, I love thee, by my life I do!

I swear by that which I will lose for thee,

To prove him false that says I love thee not.

Dem.

I say I love thee more than he can do.