And now I hear thy words, my breath returns
Only to tell thee, ’t is some traitor foul
And perjured that has dared to fill thy mind
With this abhorred conceit. For, Sire, my husband
Is my husband; and if he slay me,
I am guiltless, which, in the flight you urge,
I could not be. I dwell in safety here,
And you are ill informed about my griefs;
Or, if you are not, and the dagger’s point
Should seek my life, I die not through my fault,