To my bewildered grief. 'Twas noble, sir,
Though mine was woe would make a lion sheathe
His hungry claws and pass on softest foot.
But not for gold or throne will I be yours.
Not for all sapphires that have kissed in crowns,
All rubies that in deepest caves make day,
Would I be wife to you, or take your hand
Though to be plucked into Elysium!
Phil. So? By the fires of Dis, I'll end this play!
Dost think me your poor slave to sweat for naught?