Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from,
335 Well could I curse away a winter’s night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow,
And think it but a minute spent in sport.
Queen. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand,
340 That I may dew it with my mournful tears;
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,
[♦] To wash away my woful monuments.
O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,