pray you to deliver This to my lord the king. Most willing, madam. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter; The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her! Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding-- She is young, and of a noble modest nature, I hope she will deserve well,--and a little To love her for her mother's sake, that loved him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is, that his noble grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully: Of which there is not one, I dare avow, And now I should not lie, but will deserve For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 'em. The last is, for my men; they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw 'em from me; That they may have their wages duly paid 'em, And something over to remember me by: If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents: and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the king To do me this last right. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man! I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his highness: Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless'd him, For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet: I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be used with honour: strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me, Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. I can no more. It's one o'clock, boy, is't not? It hath struck. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late? Came you from the king, my lord I did,