How easy is it for the proper-false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master's love; As I am woman, now alas the day! What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me to untie! [Exit.]
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