“Like hermit poor
  In pensive place obscure.”

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls
(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret’s hair;
And make confession seven times a day
Of every thought that stray’d from love and Margaret;
And I your saint the penance should appoint—­
Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
Aside, like an old fashion.

John. O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
I have no part in any good man’s love,
In all earth’s pleasures portion have I none,
I fade and wither in my own esteem,
This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. 
I was not always thus. [Weeps.

Marg.  Thou noble nature,
Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
My dear heart’s lord, life’s pride, soul-honor’d John! 
Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.

John.  What would’st thou, lady, ever honor’d Margaret?

Marg.  That John would think more nobly of himself,
More worthily of high Heaven;
And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
The less offence, with image of the greater,
Thereby to work the soul’s humility,
(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)
O not for one offence mistrust Heaven’s mercy,
Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come—­
John yet has many happy days to live;
To live and make atonement.

John.  Excellent lady,
Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
Not the world’s scorn, nor falling off of friends,
Could ever do.  Will you go with me, Margaret?

Marg. (rising).  Go whither, John?

John.  Go in with me And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

Marg.  That I will, John.

[Exeunt.

SCENE.—­An inner Apartment.

JOHN is discovered kneeling.—­MARGARET standing over him.

John (rises).  I cannot bear
To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
(’Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

Marg.  John will break Margaret’s heart, if he speak so. 
O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice.  I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this.  But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.

John.  They are gone.—­
Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! 
I can smile too, and I almost begin
To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

Marg.  Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.