And by my hopes of heav'n I will forgive thee.
Out with it, come; now wouldst thou tell me all,
But art ashamed to own thyself a bawd:
'Las, that might be thy father's fault, not thine.
Perhaps some honest humble cottage bred thee,
And thy ambitious parents, poorly proud,
For a gay coat made thee a page at court,
And for a plume of feathers sold thy soul;
But 'tis not yet, not yet too late to save it.
Amir. Oh, my sad heart!