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. Take the symptoms--and ask all the tyrants of thy sex if
their fools are not known by this party-coloured livery. I am
melancholic when thou art absent; look like an ass when thou art
present; wake for thee when I should sleep; and even dream of thee
when I am awake; sigh much, drink little, eat less, court solitude,
am grown very entertaining to myself, and (as I am informed) very
troublesome to everybody else. If this be not love, it is madness,
and then it is pardonable. Nay, yet a more certain sign than all
this, I give thee my money.