Wal. Quarrel with your knights? Cut your own chair-legs off!
They do but sail with the stream. Her passion, Sir,
Broke shell and ran out twittering before yours did,
And unrequited love is mortal sin
With this chaste world. My boy, my boy, I tell you,
The fault lies nearer home.

Lewis. I have played the coward--
And in the sloth of false humility,
Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve.
How laggard I must seem to her, though she love me;
Playing with hawks and hounds, while she sits weeping!
'Tis not too late.

Wal. Too late, my royal eyas?
You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze ere long--
She has no mind to slip to cover.

Lewis. Come--
We'll back--we'll back; and you shall bear the message;
I am ashamed to speak. Tell her I love her--
That I should need to tell her! Say, my coyness
Was bred of worship, not of coldness.

Wal. Then the serfs
Must wait?

Lewis. Why not? This day to them, too, blessing brings,
Which clears from envious webs their guardian angel's wings.
[Exeunt.]