_Phi_. Ill? No _Bellario_.

_Bell_. Me thinks your words
Fall not from off your tongue so evenly,
Nor is there in your looks that quietness,
That I was wont to see.

_Phi_. Thou art deceiv'd boy:
And she stroakes thy head?

_Bell_. Yes.

_Phi_. And she does clap thy cheeks?

_Bell_. She does my Lord.

_Phi_. And she does kiss thee boy? ha!

_Bell_. How my Lord?

_Phi_. She kisses thee?

_Bell_. Not so my Lord.

_Phi_. Come, come, I know she does.

_Bell_. No by my life.

_Phi_. Why then she does not love me; come, she does,
I had her do it; I charg'd her by all charms