Anne. I had no other fruit to offer your Highness the first time I saw you, and you were then pleased to invent for me some reason why they should be acceptable. I did not dry these: may I present them, such as they are? We shall have fresh next month.
Henry. Thou art always driving away from the discourse. One moment it suits thee to know me, another not.
Anne. Remember, it is hardly three months since I miscarried. I am weak, and liable to swoons.
Henry. Thou hast, however, thy bridal cheeks, with lustre upon them when there is none elsewhere, and obstinate lips resisting all impression; but, now thou talkest about miscarrying, who is the father of that boy?
Anne. Yours and mine—He who hath taken him to his own home, before (like me) he could struggle or cry for it.
Henry. Pagan, or worse, to talk so! He did not come into the world alive: there was no baptism.
Anne. I thought only of our loss: my senses are confounded. I did not give him my milk, and yet I loved him tenderly; for I often fancied, had he lived, how contented and joyful he would have made you and England.
Henry. No subterfuges and escapes. I warrant, thou canst not say whether at my entrance thou wert waking or wandering.
Anne. Faintness and drowsiness came upon me suddenly.
Henry. Well, since thou really and truly sleepedst, what didst dream of?