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 ...

Come, you are pleasant.

This is strange to me.

My honour'd lord.

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 hallow'd, nor my wishes
More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes
Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,
Vouchsafe to speak ...

Now, I pray God, amen!

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

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

No, in truth.

No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Nay, good troth.

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

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.

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

Not for that neither: here's the pang that pinches:
His highness having 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 ...

You cannot show me.

You are a merry gamester,
My Lord Sands.

Was he mad, sir?