Orle. So doth not Orleans; I defy all those
That love not Agripyne, and him defy,
That dares but love her half so well as I.
O pardon me! I have in sorrow’s jail
Been long tormented, long this mangled bosom
Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds,
Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet
I offer love and life. Oh, cast an eye
Of mercy on me, this deformèd face
Cannot affright my soul from loving thee.
Agrip. Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate.
Orle. What sentence will my love pronounce on me?
Gall. Will Orleans then be mad? O gentle friend.
Orle. O gentle, gentle friend, I am not mad:
He’s mad, whose eyes on painted cheeks do doat,
O Galloway, such read beauty’s book by rote.
He’s mad, that pines for want of a gay flower,
Which fades when grief doth blast, or sickness lower,
Which heat doth wither, and white age’s frost
Nips dead: such fairness, when ’tis found, ’tis lost.
I am not mad, for loving Agripyne,
My love looks on her eyes with eyes divine;
I doat on the rich brightness of her mind,
That sacred beauty strikes all other blind.
O make me happy then, since my desires
Are set a burning by love’s purest fires.
Athelst. So thou wilt bear her far from England’s sight,
Enjoy thy wishes.
Agrip. Lock me in some cave,
Where staring wonder’s eye shall not be guilty
To my abhorrèd looks, and I will die
To thee, as full of love as misery.
Athelst. I am amazed and mad, some speckled soul
Lies pawned for this in hell, without redemption,
Some fiend deludes us all.
Cornw. O unjust Fates,
Why do you hide from us this mystery?
Linc. My Lord Montrose, how long have your brows worn
This fashion? these two feather springs of horn?