Et se tord.

MARY HAMILTON.
You never sing now but it makes you sad;
Why do you sing?

MARY BEATON.
I hardly know well why;
It makes me sad to sing, and very sad
To hold my peace.

MARY CARMICHAEL.
I know what saddens you.

MARY BEATON.
Prithee, what? what?

MARY CARMICHAEL.
Why, since we came from France,
You have no lover to make stuff for songs.

MARY BEATON.
You are wise; for there my pain begins indeed,
Because I have no lovers out of France.

MARY SEYTON.
I mind me of one Olivier de Pesme,
(You knew him, sweet,) a pale man with short hair,
Wore tied at sleeve the Beaton color.