And knits the sacred knot that Gods--

[Here Em cuts him off.]

EM.
What mean you, sir, to keep me here so long?
I cannot understand you by your signs;
You keep a pratling with your lips,
But never a word you speak that I can hear.

MOUNTNEY.
What, is she deaf? a great impediment.
Yet remedies there are for such defects.
Sweet Em, it is no little grief to me,
To see, where nature in her pride of art
Hath wrought perfections rich and admirable--

EM.
Speak you to me, Sir?

MOUNTNEY.
To thee, my only joy.

EM.
I cannot hear you.

MOUNTNEY.
Oh, plague of Fortune! Oh hell without compare!
What boots it us to gaze and not enjoy?