Your complexion’s brilliant; you look your best.
The Queen:
Ah! You think so. What’s this?
[Lord Lacy and Lady Joan come forward and bow low. Lord Lacy advances holding Lady Joan’s hand.]
The Queen:
[To Lacy.] What is it? Speak.
Lacy:
Oh, Dazzling Luminary, Glorious Orb of Britain whose radiant beams diffuse in all our hearts the light of loyalty, the warmth of admiration: most gracious, wisest Mistress, permit your most obedient, loyal servitor to approach your throne with humblest imprecation.
The Queen:
If the prayer, my lord, be worthy of its dress, ’Twill need our realm to content you. But give it words, man, plain words.