Queen. I feel my strength each day and hour consume,
Like lilies wasting in a lymbeck's heat.
Yet a few days,
And thou shalt see me lie, all damp and cold,
Shrouded within some hollow vault, among
My silent ancestors.
Ast. O dearest madam! Speak not of death; or think not, if you die, That I will stay behind.
Queen. Thy love has moved me;—I, for once, will have The pleasure to be pitied. I'll unfold A thing so strange, so horrid of myself—
Ast. Bless me, sweet heaven!— So horrid, said you, madam?
Queen. That sun, who with one look surveys the globe,
Sees not a wretch like me!—And could the world
Take a right measure of my state within,
Mankind must either pity me, or scorn me.
Ast. Sure none could do the last.
Queen. Thou longest to know it,
And I to tell thee, but shame stops my mouth.
First, promise me thou wilt excuse my folly;
And, next, be secret.
Ast. Can you doubt it, madam?
Queen. Yet you might spare my labour:— Can you not guess?
Ast. Madam, please you, I'll try.