Anne.

Must pity drop upon her.

So much the more

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.

Our content

By my troth and maidenhead,

I would not be a queen.

Old L.

Beshrew me, I would,

20

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.

31

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. 'Tis strange: a three-pence bow'd would hire me,
Old as I am, to queen it: but, I pray you,

Anne.

What think

you of a duchess? have you limbs

No, in truth.

To bear that load of title?

Old L. Then you are weakly made: pluck off a little ; I would not be a young count in your way,

Anne.

For more than blushing comes to: if your back
Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, 'tis too weak

Ever to get a boy.

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'ld venture an emballing: I myself

41

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 'long'd No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were 't worth to

Anne.

know

The secret of your conference?

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

50

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

Anne.

Cham.

Follow such creatures. That you may,

fair lady,

Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's

Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty 60
Commends his good opinion of you, and

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title
A thousand pound a year, annual support,
Out of his grace he adds.

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, 70
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,
As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness,
Whose health and royalty I pray for.

Lady,

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit

Anne.

The king hath of you. [Aside] 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.

My honour'd lord.

80

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Old L. Why, this it is; see, see!

Anne.

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.

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.

90

With your theme, I could O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

Anne.

A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!
No other obligation! By my life,

That promises mo 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?

Good lady, 100
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've heard to her.

Old L.

What do you think me?

Scene IV.

[Exeunt.

A hall in Black-Friars.

Trumpets, sennet and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; next them, with some