How will you blush when Henry calls you wife,
If I, in play, can throw you on your knees?
Mar. Henry? God pity me! I am so racked!
La. Alb. Thou art a fool! Up, girl, there's some one comes.
If 't be the king! Quick now, and smooth your face.
If he should wonder at this trace of tears,
I'll tell him why you wept.
Mar. You could not be
So cruel!
La. Alb. Cruel? How? 'Twill please him well