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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 conscience would receive

If you might please to stretch it.

ANNE.

Nay, good troth.

OLD LADY.

Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen!

ANNE.

No, not for all the riches under heaven.

OLD LADY.

'Tis strange: a threepence 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?

ANNE.

No, in truth.

OLD LADY.

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 burden, 'tis too weak

Ever to get a boy.

ANNE.

How you do talk!

I swear again I would not be a queen

For all the world.

OLD LADY.

In faith, for little England

You'd venture an emballing. I myself

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd

No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN

CHAMBERLAIN.

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.

CHAMBERLAIN.

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!

CHAMBERLAIN.

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 of you to you, and

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which tide

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, nor my prayers

Are not words duly hallowed, 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.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Lady,

I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit

The King hath of you. [Aside] I have perus'd 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 LORD

CHAMBERLAIN

OLD LADY.

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, O fate!

A very fresh-fish here-fie, fie, fie upon

This compell'd fortune!-have your mouth fill'd up

Before you open it.

ANNE.

This is strange to me.

OLD LADY.

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 LADY.

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 my life,

That promises moe 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 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' have heard to her.

OLD LADY.

What do you think me?

Exeunt

ACT II. SCENE 4.

London.