ANNE.
By my troth and maidenhead,
I would not be a queen.
OLD LADY.
Beshrew me, I would,
And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would you,
For all this spice of your hypocrisy.
You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,
Have too a woman’s heart, which ever yet
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;
Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts,
Saving your mincing, the capacity
Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive,
If you might please to stretch it.
ANNE.
Nay, good troth.
OLD LADY.
Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen?
ANNE.
No, not for all the riches under heaven.
OLD LADY.
’Tis strange. A threepence bowed would hire me,
Old as I am, to queen it. But I pray you,
What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs
To bear that load of title?
ANNE.
No, in truth.
OLD LADY.
Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little.
I would not be a young count in your way
For more than blushing comes to. If your back
Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’tis too weak
Ever to get a boy.
ANNE.
How you do talk!
I swear again I would not be a queen
For all the world.
OLD LADY.
In faith, for little England
You’d venture an emballing. I myself
Would for Caernarfonshire, although there longed
No more to th’ crown but that. Lo, who comes here?