QUEEN.
What, is one here? Speak to me for God's sake:
Where are you lain?
CHASTELARD.
Here, madam, at your hand.
QUEEN.
Sweet lord, what sore pain have I had for you
And been most patient!—Nay, you are not bound.
If you be gentle to me, take my hand.
Do you not hold me the worst heart in the world?
Nay, you must needs; but say not yet you do.
I am worn so weak I know not how I live:
Reach me your hand.
CHASTELARD.
Take comfort and good heart;
All will find end; this is some grief to you,
But you shall overlive it. Come, fair love;
Be of fair cheer: I say you have done no wrong.
QUEEN.
I will not be of cheer: I have done a thing
That will turn fire and burn me. Tell me not;
If you will do me comfort, whet your sword.
But if you hate me, tell me of soft things,
For I hate these, and bitterly. Look up;
Am I not mortal to be gazed upon?
CHASTELARD.
Yea, mortal, and not hateful.
QUEEN.
O lost heart!
Give me some mean to die by.
CHASTELARD.
Sweet, enough.
You have made no fault; life is not worth a world
That you should weep to take it: would mine were,
And I might give you a world-worthier gift
Than one poor head that love has made a spoil;
Take it for jest, and weep not: let me go,
And think I died of chance or malady.
Nay, I die well; one dies not best abed.
QUEEN.
My warrant to reprieve you—that you saw?
That came between your hands?
CHASTELARD.
Yea, not long since.
It seems you have no will to let me die.