Sober, on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad.
Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex commonly are- the want of which vain dew perchance shall dry your pities- but I have that honourable grief lodged here, which burns worse than tears drown.
We are a Queen, or long have thought so, certain the daughter of a king.
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, So filled and so becoming. In pure white robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach.
Women will love her, that she is a woman More worth than any man; Men that she is the rarest of all women.
I think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind.