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.

QUEEN.
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.



SCENE III.--MARY BEATON'S chamber: night.

[Enter CHASTELARD.]

CHASTELARD.
I am not certain yet she will not come;
For I can feel her hand's heat still in mine,
Past doubting of, and see her brows half draw,