A right rhyme, And right a thyme's worth: nay, a sweet song, though. What, shall my cousin hold fast that love of his, Her face and talk, when life ends? as God grant His life end late and sweet; I love him well. She is fair enough, his lover; a fair-faced maid, With gray sweet eyes and tender touch of talk; And that, God wot, I wist not. See you, sir, Men say I needs must get wed hastily; Do none point lips at him? (CHASTELARD: Yea, guessingly.) God help such lips! and get me leave to laugh! What should I do but paint and put him up Like a gilt god, a saintship in a shrine, For all fools' feast? God's mercy on men's wits! Tall as a housetop and as bare of brain-- I'll have no staffs with fool-faced carven heads To hang my life on. Nay, for love, no more, For fear I laugh and set their eyes on edge To find out why I laugh. Good-night, fair lords; Bid them cease playing. Give me your hand; good-night.

Queen Monologue from Chastelard, a Tragedy

Rehearse Queen's monologue