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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, Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than ’Tis sweet at first to acquire,--after this process, To give her the avaunt! it is a pity Would move a monster.
Not because of that either: here’s the real pain: His highness having lived so long with her, and she Such a good woman that no one could ever Speak ill of her; I swear, She never did anything wrong: Oh, now, after So many years of glory and power, Still growing in majesty and splendor, which Leaving her now is a thousand times more bitter than It was sweet at first to gain it,--after all this, To cast her aside! it’s a pity That would move even a monster.
Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her.
Even hearts that are most hard Will soften and grieve for her.
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.
Oh, God’s will! It would be better If she’d never known luxury: though it’s temporary, Yet, if fate turns against The one who has it, it’s a suffering as painful As the separation of soul and body.
Alas, poor lady! She’s a stranger now again.
Poor lady! She’s a stranger now, all over again.
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.
All the more reason For pity to fall upon her. Truly, I swear, it’s better to be born humble, And live content among ordinary people, Than to be raised high in shining grief, And wear a golden sorrow.
Our content Is our best having.
Our content Is our greatest possession.
By my troth and maidenhead, I would not be a queen.
By my word and virginity, I would not want to be a queen.
Beshrew me, I would, 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.
I swear, I would, And risk my virginity for it; and so would you, Despite all this show of hypocrisy: You, who have so many fine qualities of a woman, Also have a woman’s heart; which always desires Greatness, wealth, power; And those, to be honest, are blessings; and those gifts, If it weren’t for your pretending, your soft conscience Would accept, if you allowed it to stretch.
Nay, good troth.
No, truly.
Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen?
Yes, truly, truly; you wouldn’t want to be a queen?
No, not for all the riches under heaven. Old Lady: ’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 duchess? have you limbs To bear that load of title?
No, not for all the riches in the world. Old Lady: It’s strange: a three-penny bow would hire me, Even at my age, to be a queen: but, I ask you, What do you think of being a duchess? Do you have the strength To bear that title?
No, in truth.
No, in truth.
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.
Then you’re made of weak stuff: take off a little; I wouldn’t want to be a young count in your situation, Because more than just blushing will happen: if your back Can’t handle this burden, then it’s too weak Ever to have a son.
How you do talk! I swear again, I would not be a queen For all the world.
What are you talking about? I swear again, I wouldn’t want to be a queen For all the riches in the world.
In faith, for little England You’ld venture an emballing: I myself Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long’d No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?
Honestly, for a small England You’d risk getting yourself in trouble: I myself Would risk something for Carnarvonshire, even if it didn’t Mean any more to the crown than that. Look, here comes someone!
Good morrow, ladies. What were’t worth to know The secret of your conference?
Good morning, ladies. What’s it worth to know The secret of your conversation?
My good lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking: Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying.
My lord, Your question isn’t important; it’s not worth asking: We were just pitying our mistress’s sorrows.
It was a gentle business, and becoming The action of good women: there is hope All will be well.
It was a kind matter, and fitting The actions of good women: there’s hope That everything will turn out fine.
Now, I pray God, amen!
Now, I pray to God, amen!
You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 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 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.
You have a gentle heart, and heavenly blessings Follow people like you. May you, fair lady, Know that I speak honestly, and your many virtues Are highly praised by the king, who sends his good opinion And plans to honor you with a title no less important Than Marchioness of Pembroke: with this title, He’s also giving you a thousand pounds a year in support, As a gift from him.
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 my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness; Whose health and royalty I pray for.
I don’t know What kind of obedience I should offer; More than everything I have is nothing: and my prayers Aren’t words properly sanctified, nor are my wishes Worth anything more than empty hopes; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can give in return. Please, my lord, Allow me to express my thanks and my obedience, As from a shy servant, to His Highness; Whose health and well-being I pray for.
Lady, I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit The king hath of you.
Lady, I won’t fail to support the king’s favorable opinion Of you.
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.
I’ve observed her well; Beauty and honor in her are so mixed That they’ve caught the king’s eye: and who knows But that from this lady could come a jewel To brighten all this land? I’ll go to the king, And tell him I spoke with you.
My honour’d lord.
My honored lord.
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.
Well, that’s how it is; look, look! I’ve been begging in the court for sixteen years, And I’m still a poor beggar in the court, never able To find the right moment for asking for money; And you, oh fate! A complete newcomer here—shame on This forced fortune!—have your mouth filled Before you even open it.
This is strange to me.
This is weird to me.
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?
How does it taste? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no. There was a lady once, it’s an old story, Who didn’t want to be a queen, she wouldn’t, Not for all the mud in Egypt: have you heard of it?
Come, you are pleasant.
Come on, you’re being funny.
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?
With your topic, I could Outshine the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke! A thousand pounds a year just for respect! No other strings attached! By my life, That promises even more thousands: honor’s entourage Is longer than his train. By now I know you’re strong enough to bear a duchess title: tell me, Are you not stronger than before?
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’ve heard to her.
Good lady, Make yourself happy with your own fancy, And leave me out of it. I wish I didn’t exist, If this makes me feel anything: it weakens me, To think about what comes next. The queen is without comfort, and we are forgetful In our long absence: please, do not tell her What you’ve heard here.
What do you think me?
What do you think I am?