Anne.
Not for that neither—here's the pang that pinches.
His Highness liv'd 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: oh, now after
So many courses of the sun enthron'd,
Still growing in a majesty and pomp,
The which to leave, a thousand-fold more bitter
Than sweet at first t'acquire. After this process,
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.
In God's will, better
She ne'er had known pomp; though't be temporal,
Yet if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
It from the bearer, 'tis a suff'rance panging
As soul and body's sev'ring.

Old L.
Ah poor lady,
She's stranger 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 glist'ring 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 hypocrisie;
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 † ^notechiverel conscience would receive,
If you might please to stretch it.

Anne.
Nay, good troth—

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

Anne.
No, not for all the riches under heav'n.

Old L.
'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 Dutchess? have you limbs

To bear that load of title?

Anne.
No, in truth.

Old L.
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.

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

Old L.
In faith for little England
You'll venture an emballing: I my self
Would for Carnarvanshire, though there belong'd
No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here? Enter Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.
Good-morrow, ladies; what were't worth to know
The secret of your conf'rence?

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 heav'nly 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 Pembrook; 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: for my prayers
Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes
More worth than vanities; yet pray'rs 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 t'approve the fair conceit
The King hath of you.—I've perus'd her well,
Beauty and honour in her are so mingled [Aside.
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. [Exit Chamberlain.

Anne.
My honour'd lord.

Old L.
Why this it is: see, see,
I have been begging sixteen years in court
(Am yet a courtier beggarly) nor could
Come pat betwixt too early and too late,
For any suit of pounds: And you, oh fate!
(A very fresh fish here; fie, fie 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, no:
There was a lady 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'er-mount the lark. The marchioness of Pembrook!
A thousand pounds a year, for pure respect!
No other obligation? By my life
That promises more thousands: honour's train
Is longer than his fore-skirt. By this time
I know your back will bear a Dutchess. Say,
Are you not stronger than you were?

Anne.
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 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 y'ave heard, to her.

Old L.
What do you think me?— [Exeunt.

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