DARNLEY.
This is mere mercy—
But you thank God you love him not a whit?
QUEEN.
It shall be what it please; and if I please
It shall be anything. Give me the warrant.
DARNLEY.
Nay, for your sake and love of you, not I,
To make it dangerous.
QUEEN.
O, God' pity, sir!
You are tender of me; will you serve me so,
Against mine own will, show me so much love,
Do me good service that I loath being done,
Out of pure pity?
DARNLEY.
Nay, your word shall stand.
QUEEN.
What makes you gape so beastlike after blood?
Were you not bred up on some hangman's hire
And dicted with fleshmeats at his hand
And fed into a fool? Give me that paper.
DARNLEY.
Now for that word I will not.
QUEEN.
Nay, sweet love,
For your own sake be just a little wise;
Come, I beseech you.
DARNLEY.
Pluck not at my hands.
QUEEN.
No, that I will not: I am brain-broken, mad;
Pity my madness for sweet marriage-sake
And my great love's; I love you to say this;
I would not have you cross me, out of love.
But for true love should I not chafe indeed?
And now I do not.