ANNE

Was he mad Sir? You are a merry Gamester My Lord Sands. You cannot show me. Not for that neither; here's the pang that pinches. His Highness, having lived so long with her, and she So good a Lady, that no Tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, She never knew harm-doing: O, now after So many courses of the Sun enthroaned, Still growing in a Majesty and pomp, the which To leave, a thousand fold more bitter, then It's sweet at first to acquire. After this Process. To give her the avant, it is a pity Would move a Monster. O Gods will, much better She never had known pomp; thought be temporal, Yet if that quarrel. Fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, it's a sufferance, panging As soul and bodies severing. So much the more Must pity drop upon her; verily I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in Content, Then to be perked up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow. No in truth. How you do talk; I swear again, I would not be a Queen, For all the world: My good Lord, Not your demand; it value's not your asking: Our Mistress Sorrows we were pitying. Now I pray God, Amen. I do not know What kind of my obedience, I should tender; More then my All, is Nothing: Nor my Prayers Are not words duly hallowed; nor my Wishes More worth, then empty vanities: yet Prayers & Wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your Lordship, Vouchsafe to speak my thanks, and my obedience, As from a blush ng Handmaid, to his Highness; Whose health and Royalty I pray for. My honoured Lord. This is strange to me. Come you are pleasant. Good Lady, Make your self mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me out on't. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a ot; it faints me To think what follows. The Queen is comfortless, and w e forgetful In our long absence: pray do not deliver, What here you have herd to her. By my troth, and Maidenhead, I would not be a Queen. Nay, good troth. No, not for all the riches under Heaven.