Why, this last night she held me for a fool--
Ay, God wot, for a thing of stripe and bell.
I bade her make me marshal in her masque--
I had the dress here painted, gold and gray
(That is, not gray but a blue-green like this)--
She tells me she had chosen her marshal, she,
The best o' the world for cunning and sweet wit;
And what sweet fool but her sweet knight, God help!
To serve her with that three-inch wit of his?
She is all fool and fiddling now; for me,
I am well-pleased; God knows, if I might choose
I would not be more troubled with her love.
Her love is like a briar that rasps the flesh,
And yours is soft like flowers. Come this way, love;
So, further in this window; hark you here.

Enter CHASTELARD.

MARY BEATON.
Good morrow, sir.

CHASTELARD.
Good morrow, noble lady.

MARY CARMICHAEL.
You have heard no news? what news?

CHASTELARD.
Nay, I have none.
That maiden-tongued male-faced Elizabeth
Hath eyes unlike our queen's, hair not so soft,
And lips no kiss of love's could bring to flower
In such red wise as our queen's; save this news,
I know none English.

MARY SEYTON.
Come, no news of her;
For God's love talk still rather of our queen.

MARY BEATON.
God give us grace then to speak well of her.
You did right joyfully in our masque last night'
I saw you when the queen lost breath (her head
Bent back, her chin and lips catching the air--
A goodly thing to see her) how you smiled
Across her head, between your lips-no doubt
You had great joy, sir. Did you not take note
Once how one lock fell? that was good to see.

CHASTELARD.
Yea, good enough to live for.

MARY BEATON.
Nay, but sweet
Enough to die. When she broke off the dance,
Turning round short and soft-I never saw
Such supple ways of walking as she has.

CHASTLELARD.
Why do you praise her gracious looks to me?

MARY BEATON.
Sir, for mere sport: but tell me even for love
How much you love her.

CHASTELARD.
I know not: it may be
If I had set mine eyes to find that out,
I should not know it. She hath fair eyes: may be
I love her for sweet eyes or brows or hair,
For the smooth temples, where God touching her
Made blue with sweeter veins the flower-sweet white
Or for the tender turning of her wrist,
Or marriage of the eyelid with the cheek;
I cannot tell; or flush of lifting throat,
I know not if the color get a name
Thi