MARY BEATON.
What has she done for you to gird at her?

CHASTELARD.
Nothing. You do not greatly love her, you,
Who do not-gird, you call it. I am bound to France;
Shall I take word from you to any one?
So it be harmless, not a gird, I will.

MARY BEATON.
I doubt you will not go hence with your life.

CHASTELARD.
Why, who should slay me? No man northwards born,
In my poor mind; my sword's lip is no maid's
To fear the iron biting of their own,
Though they kiss hard for hate's sake.

MARY BEATON.
Lo you, sir,
How sharp he whispers, what close breath and eyes-
And here are fast upon him, do you see?

CHASTELARD.
Well, which of these must take my life in hand?
Pray God it be the better: nay, which hand?

MARY BEATON.
I think, none such. The man is goodly made;
She is tender-hearted toward his courtesies,