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"Cannot!" was all that she could utter, and upon their clasped hands the tears ran down. "Thou wrong'st me, 'Tite Poulette. Thou dost not trust me; thou fearest the kiss may loosen the hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggled hard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield me now; I yield; I am his unconditioned prisoner forever. God forbid that I ask aught but that you will be my wife."
"His lordship knows wot is due to me, and I knows wot is due to 'im therefore it 'appens we are able to ekally respect each other!" "If thou wert honorable, Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report, as thou from honor." Cymbeline. Summer in Shakespeare Land!
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