My sovereign bids her bondman what she will. ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. I bid thee mock me not: I may ask thee Aught, and be heard of any save my lord. ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. Go, friend. [Exit Narsetes.] Narsetes Speak now. Say first what ails thee? ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. Me? ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. Thy voice was honey-hearted music, sweet As wine and glad as clarions: not in battle Might man have more of joy than I to hear it And feel delight dance in my heart and laugh Too loud for hearing save its own. Thou rose, Why did God give thee more than all thy kin Whose pride is perfume only and colour, this? Music? No rose but mine sings, and the birds Hush all their hearts to hearken. Dost thou hear not How heavy sounds her note now? ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. Sire, not I. But sire I should not call thee.
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