Win. Believe it,
I came no nearer to you than yon place
At your bed’s feet; and of the house had leave,
Calling myself your horse-boy, in to come,
And visit my sick master.
Frank. Then ’twas my fancy;
Some windmill in my brains for want of sleep.
Win. Would I might never sleep, so you could rest!
But you have plucked a thunder on your head,
Whose noise cannot cease suddenly: why should you
Dance at the wedding of a second wife,
When scarce the music which you heard at mine
Had ta’en a farewell of you? O, this was ill!
And they who thus can give both hands away
In th’ end shall want their best limbs.
Frank. Winnifred,—
The chamber-door’s fast?
Win. Yes.
Frank. Sit thee, then, down;
And when thou’st heard me speak, melt into tears:
Yet I, to save those eyes of thine from weeping,
Being to write a story of us two.
Instead of ink dipped my sad pen in blood.
When of thee I took leave, I went abroad
Only for pillage, as a freebooter,
What gold soe’er I got to make it thine.
To please a father I have Heaven displeased;
Striving to cast two wedding-rings in one,
Through my bad workmanship I now have none;
I have lost her and thee.
Win. I know she’s dead;
But you have me still.
Frank. Nay, her this hand
Murdered; and so I lose thee too.
Win. O me!
Frank. Be quiet; for thou my evidence art,
Jury, and judge: sit quiet, and I’ll tell all.