I’ll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.
Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself;
[♦] Hast not a tongue? is she not here?
Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight?
[70] Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such,
[♦] Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk,—if thy name be so—
What ransom must I pay before I pass?
For I perceive I am thy prisoner.
[75] Suf. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit,