_Pan_. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?
_Troy_. What now?
_Pan_. Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.
_Troy_. Let me read.
_Pan_. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles me,
and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing, what another,
that I shall leave you one o’ th’s days; and I have a rheum in mine
eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that unless a man were curs’d I
cannot tell what to think on’t. What says she there?
_Troy_. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
Th’ effect doth operate another way.
[Tearing the letter]
Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.
My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds. Exeunt
severally