Jezebel.
So, my good lord, at last I look upon you
After these days of anguish. O my lord,
What has afflicted you, that you should shut
Your doors upon me, send no word to me,
No word till now, not even let me know
If you were ill or well?
But no upbraiding.
Tell me what is the trouble of your soul?
Ahab.
What do you think?
Jezebel.
I know not what to think,
Living alone, shut from you, that should tell me.
Men say that you are grieved because a farmer,
One Naboth, would not sell his vineyard to you.
Ahab.
I, grieved, at that?
Jezebel.
I have no guide save rumour.