Anne.
Not for that neither: here's the pang that pinches:
His highness having ^note 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 enthroned,
Still growing in a majesty ^note and pomp, the which
To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than
'Tis sweet at first to acquire—after this process, ^note
To give her the avaunt! it is a pity
Would move a monster.

Old L.
Hearts of most hard temper
Melt and lament for her.

Anne.
O, ^note God's will! much better
She ne'er had known pomp: though 't be temporal,
Yet, if that quarrel ^note, fortune, do ^note divorce
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging
As soul and body's severing.

Old L.
Alas ^note, poor lady!
She's a stranger ^note now again.

Anne.
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

Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief
And wear a golden sorrow.

Old L.
Our content
Is our best having.

Anne.
By my troth and maidenhead,
I would not be a queen.

Old L.
Beshrew me, I would,
And venture maidenhead for't; and so would you,
For all this spice of your hypocrisy:
You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,
Have too a woman's heart; which ever yet
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;
Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts—
Saving your mincing—the capacity
Of your soft cheveril ^note conscience would receive,
If you might please to stretch it.

Anne.
Nay, good troth ^note.

Old L.
Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen?

Anne.
No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Old L.
'Tis strange: a three-pence bow'd ^note would ^note 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?

Anne.
No, in truth

Old L.
Then you are weakly made: pluck off ^note 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.

Anne.
How you do ^note talk!
I swear again, I would not be a queen
For all the world.

Old L.
In faith, for little England

You'ld ^note venture an emballing ^note: I myself
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 'long'd ^note
No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here? Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.
Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know
The secret of your conference?

Anne.
My good lord,
Not your demand; it values not your asking:
Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.

Cham.
It was a gentle business, and becoming
The action of good women: there is hope
All will be well.

Anne.
Now, I pray God, amen!

Cham.
You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings
Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's ^note
Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty
Commends his good opinion of you ^note, and
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title
A thousand pound ^note a year, annual support,
Out of his grace he adds.

Anne.
I do not know.
What kind ^note of my obedience I should tender;
More than my all is ^note nothing: nor ^note my prayers
Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes
More worth than empty ^note 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.

Cham.
Lady,
I shall not fail to approve ^note the fair conceit
The king hath of you. [Aside ^note] I have perused her well;
Beauty and honour in her are so mingled
That they have caught the king: and who knows yet
But from this lady may proceed a gem
To lighten all this isle?—I'll to the king,
And say I spoke with you.

Anne.
My honour'd lord. [Exit ^note Lord Chamberlain.

Old L.
Why, this it is; see, see!
I have been begging sixteen years in court,
Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor ^note could
Come pat betwixt too early and too late
For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!
A very fresh fish here—fie, fie, fie ^note upon
This compell'd fortune!—have your mouth fill'd up
Before you open it.

Anne.
This is strange to me.

Old L.
How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence ^{note note}, no.
There was a lady ^note once, 'tis an old story,
That would not be a queen, that would she not,
For all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it?

Anne.
Come, you are pleasant.

Old L.
With your theme, I could
O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!
A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!
No other obligation! By ^note my life,
That promises moe ^note thousands: honour's train
Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time

I know your back will bear a duchess: say,
Are you not stronger than you were?

Anne.
Good lady,
Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,
And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,
If this salute ^note my blood a jot: it faints me,
To think what follows.
The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful
In our long absence: pray, do not deliver
What here you've ^note heard to her.

Old L.
What do you think me? ^note [Exeunt. ^note

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