[♦] Even in so short a space, my woman’s heart
[80] Grossly grew captive to his honey words
[♦] And proved the subject of my own soul’s curse,
[♦] Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest;
For never yet one hour in his bed
[♦] Have I enjoy’d the golden dew of sleep,
[85] But have been waked by his timorous dreams.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
[♦] And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
[♦] Q. Eliz. Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.