CLOTEN.
Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.
[Exit Lady.]
IMOGEN.
Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.
CLOTEN.
Still I swear I love you.
IMOGEN.
If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me.
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
CLOTEN.
This is no answer.
IMOGEN.
But that you shall not say I yield, being silent,
I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith,
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness; one of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
CLOTEN.
To leave you in your madness ’twere my sin;
I will not.
IMOGEN.
Fools are not mad folks.
CLOTEN.
Do you call me fool?