Thier. Martell, a wonder,
Here's a woman that dares die, yet tell me,
Are you a Wife?
Ordel. I am Sir.
Thier. And have children?
She sighs and weeps.
Ordel. Oh none Sir.
Thier. Dare you venture
For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear,
To part with these sweet hopes?
Ordel. With all but Heaven,
And yet die full of children; he that reads me
When I am ashes, is my Son in wishes,
And those chaste dames that keep my memory,
Singing my yearly requiems, are my Daughters.
Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledg[e].
And what I must doe, Lady?
Ordel. You are the King, Sir,
And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing
That you desire, the gods showr on the Kingdom.
Thier. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you,
The gods have will'd it so, they're made the blessing
Must make France young again, and me a man,
Keep up your strength still nobly.
Ordel. Fear me not.