And give me leave,
And do not say 'tis superstition, that
I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady,
queen, that ended when I but began,
Give me that hand of yours to kiss.
The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's Not dry.
My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,
Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,
So many summers
dry; scarce any joy
Did ever so long live; no sorrow
But kill'd itself much sooner.
Dear my brother,
Let him that was the cause of this have power
To take off so much grief from you as
Will piece up in himself.
Indeed, my lord,
If I had thought the sight of my poor image
Would thus have wrought you, for the stone
I'ld not have show'd it.
Do not draw the curtain.
No longer shall you gaze on't, lest your fancy
May think anon it moves.
Let be, let be.
Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already
What was he that did make it? See, my
Would you not deem it breathed? and that those veins
Did verily bear blood?
The very life seems warm upon her lip.
The fixture of her eye has motion in't,
As we are mock'd with art.
I'll draw the curtain:
My lord's almost so far transported that
He'll think anon it lives.
O sweet Paulina,
Make me to think so twenty years together!
No settled senses of the world can match
pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone.
I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you: but
I could afflict you farther.
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