Anne.
Not for that neither;—Here's the pang that pinches:
His highness having liv'd so long with her: and she
So good a lady, that no tongue could ever
Pronounce dishonour of her.
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.
I would not be a queen.

Old L.
Beshrew me, I would,
And so would you,
For all this spice of your hypocrisy.

Anne.
Nay, good troth,—

Old L.
Yes, troth, and troth,—You would not be a queen?

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

Old L.
A three-pence bowed 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?

Anne.
No, in truth.

Old L.
I would not be a young count in your way,
For more than blushing comes to.

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

Old L.
In faith, for little England
You'd venture an emballing:* ^note I myself
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 'long'd
No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here? Enter the Lord Chamberlain, L. H.

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

Anne.
My good lord,
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 Heaven, amen!

Cham.
You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings
Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high notes
Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty
Commends his good opinion to you, and
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke,* ^note to which title
A thousand pound a year, annual support,
Out of his grace he adds.

Anne.
I do not know
What kind of my obedience I should tender;
More than my all is nothing:
'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 improve the fair conceit,
The king hath of you.—I have perus'd her well; [Aside.
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 L. Chamb. L.H.

Old L.
The Marchioness of Pembroke!
A thousand pounds a year! for pure respect;
No other obligation: By my life,
That promises more thousands. By this time,
I know, your limbs 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 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 have heard, to her.

Old L.
What do you think me? [Exeunt, R.H.

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