MURRAY.
I say not so much; blithe she seems at whiles,
Gentle and goodly doubtless in all ways,
But hardly with such lightness and quick heart
As it was said.

MARY HAMILTON.
'Tis your great care of her
Makes you misdoubt; nought else.

MURRAY.
Yea, may be so;
She has no cause I know to sadden her.

[They pass.]

QUEEN.
I am tired too soon; I could have danced down hours
Two years gone hence and felt no wearier.
One grows much older northwards, my fair lord;
I wonder men die south; meseems all France
Smells sweet with living, and bright breath of days
That keep men far from dying. Peace; pray you now,
No dancing more. Sing, sweet, and make us mirth;
We have done with dancing measures: sing that song
You call the song of love at ebb.

MARY BEATON.

[Sings.]