Jane. O would to God that act might be recalled!

Mary. What act?

Jane. That makes me queen.

Mary. Thou queen! O never

Shall regal crown clasp that unwrinkled brow!

Thou queen? Go, girl—betake thee to thy mappets!

Call Ascham back—philosophize—but never

Presume to parley with gray counsellors,

Nor ride forth in the front of harnessed knights!

Leave that to me, the daughter of a king.