EN.
What, is one here? Speak to me for God's sake:
Where are you lain?

CHASTELARD.
Here, madam, at your hand.

QUEEN.
Sweet lord, what sore pain have I had for you
And been most patient!--Nay, you are not bound.
If you be gentle to me, take my hand.
Do you not hold me the worst heart in the world?
Nay, you must needs; but say not yet you do.
I am worn so weak I know not how I live:
Reach me your hand.

CHASTELARD.
Take comfort and good heart;
All will find end; this is some grief to you,
But you shall overlive it. Come, fair love;
Be of fair cheer: I say you have done no wrong.

QUEEN.
I will not be of cheer: I have done a thing
That will turn fire and burn me. Tell me not;
If you will do me comfort, whet your sword.
But if you hate me, tell me of soft things,
For I hate these, and bitterly. Look up;
Am I not mortal to be gazed upon?

CHASTELARD.
Yea, mortal, and not hateful.

QUEEN.
O lost heart!
Give me some mean to die by.

CHASTELARD.
Sweet, enough.
You have made no fault; life is not worth a world
That you should weep to take it: would mine were,
And I might give you a world-worthier gift
Than one poor head that love has made a spoil;
Take it for jest, and weep not: let me go,
And think I died of chance or malady.
Nay, I die well; one dies not best abed.

QUEEN.
My warrant to reprieve you--that you saw?
That came between your hands?

CHASTELARD.
Yea, not long since.
It seems you have no will to let me die.

QUEEN.
Alas, you know I wrote it with my heart,
Out of pure love; and since you were in bonds
I have had such grief for love's sake and my heart's--
Yea, by my life I have--I could not choose
But give love way a little. Take my hand;
You know it would have pricked my heart's blood out
To write reprieve with.

CHASTELARD.
Sweet, your hands are kind;
Lay them about my neck, upon my face,
And tell me not of writing.

QUEEN.
Nay, by heaven,
I would have given you mine own blood to drink
If that could heal you of your soul-sickness.
Yea, they know that, they curse me for your sake,
Rail at my love--would God their heads were lopped
And we twain left together this side death!
But look you, sweet, if this my warrant hold
You are but dead and shamed; for you must die,
And they will slay you shamefully by force
Even in my sight.

CHASTELARD.
Faith, I think