What, slain indeed? I knew he would be slain. Ay, through the neck: I knew one must be smitten through the neck To die so quick: if one were stabbed to the heart, He would die slower. (MARY CARMICHAEL: Will you behold him dead?) Yea: must a dead man not be looked upon That living one was fain of? give me way. Lo you, what sort of hair this fellow had; The doomsman gathers it into his hand To grasp the head by for all men to see; I never did that. (MARY CARMICHAEL: For God's love, let me go.) I think sometimes she must have held it so, Holding his head back, see you, by the hair To kiss his face, still lying in his arms. Ay, go and weep: it must be pitiful If one could see it. What is this they say? So perish the Queen's traitors! Yea, but so Perish the Queen! God, do thus much to her For his sake only: yea, for pity's sake Do thus much with her.

Mary Beaton Monologue from Chastelard, a Tragedy

Rehearse Mary Beaton's monologue