Be it not a knavely act so far below you, Lord, to mock me so? To place thy vibrant fruit, ripen it so sweet and plump, within my reach, let me savour’t, and for such a time, ‘til thou make’st it rot, so violent? Give some other poor girl the throne, release my tongue may it forsake; merciful smite, I beg of thee, make thy worthless daughter still and cold. Between thy witless love, her memory, no choice has been so easy. To marry s’to forsake her, forsake my very heart. Thine gormless error, God, makes this royal womb for all time dry. 

This, what thou will for me to do? To lay thy mockery bare in the courtyard, make for all to see? Or to forget so shamefully quick, not a century in least, her eyes? Her bottomless eyes, which contain’d all beauty in thy creation! Is’t thy wish I marry soon enough to bear a son for thy rancid throne? Foolish, if I be not mad, to tease. If not blunder, even wicked greed.