'Tis strange: a three-pence bow'd would hire me,
Old as I am, to queen it: but, I pray you,
What think you
of a duchess? have you limbs
To bear that load of title?
No, in truth.
Then you are weakly made: pluck off a little;
I would not be a young count in your way,
For more than
blushing comes to: if your back
Cannot vouchsafe this burthen,'tis too weak
Ever to get a boy.
How you do talk!
I swear again, I would not be a queen
For all the world.
In faith, for little England
You'ld venture an emballing: I myself
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there
No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?
Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know
The secret of your conference?
My good lord,
Not your demand; it values not your asking:
Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.
It was a gentle business, and becoming
The action of good women: there is hope
All will be well.
Now, I pray God, amen!
You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings
Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
I speak sincerely, and high note's
Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty
Commends his good
opinion of you, and
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
Than Marchioness of Pembroke: to which
A thousand pound a year, annual support,
Out of his grace he adds.
I do not know
What kind of my obedience I should tender;
More than my all is nothing: nor my prayers
not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes
More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes
Are all I
can return. Beseech your lordship,
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,
As from a blushing
handmaid, to his highness;
Whose health and royalty I pray for.
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