HEART. Death, how her innocence torments and pleases me! Lying,
child, is indeed the art of love, and men are generally masters in
it: but I'm so newly entered, you cannot distrust me of any skill
in the treacherous mystery. Now, by my soul, I cannot lie, though
it were to serve a friend or gain a mistress.
SILV. Must you lie, then, if you say you love me?
HEART. No, no, dear ignorance, thou beauteous changeling--I tell
thee I do love thee, and tell it for a truth, a naked truth, which
I'm ashamed to discover.
SILV. But love, they say, is a tender thing, that will smooth
frowns, and make calm an angry face; will soften a rugged temper,
and make ill-humoured people good. You look ready to fright one,
and talk as if your passion were not love, but anger.
HEART. 'Tis both; for I am angry with myself when I am pleased
with you. And a pox upon me for loving thee so well--yet I must
on. 'Tis a bearded arrow, and will more easily be thrust forward
than drawn back.
SILV. Indeed, if I were well assured you loved; but how can I be
well assured?
HEART.
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