Fath. Marry, for all the world like a dripping-wet cambric handkerchief! She has no colour nor strength in her; and does nothing but weep—poor lady!
Helen. Tell me again what said she to thee?
Fath. She offered me all she was mistress of to take the letter to Master Clifford. She drew her purse from her pocket—the ring from her finger—she took her very earrings out of her ears—but I was forbidden, and refused. And now I’m sorry for it! Poor lady!
Helen. Thou shouldst be sorry. Thou hast a hard heart, Fathom.
Fath. I, madam! My heart is as soft as a woman’s. You should have seen me when I came out of her chamber—poor lady!
Helen. Did you cry?
Fath. No; but I was as near it as possible. I a hard heart! I would do anything to serve her, poor sweet lady!
Helen. Will you take her letter, asks she you again?
Fath. No—I am forbid.
Helen. Will you help Master Clifford to an interview with her?