Did you not find me hasty, over-bold?
Nay, tell me all your thought.
MARIA.
You know, my lord,
I am no courtier, and belike my thought
Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.
DON JOHN.
Speak on, speak on!
Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing
Rebeck and mandoline.
MARIA.
Is it not strange?
I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed,
If only from the simple garb of black,
And golden collar, midst the motley hues
Of our gay nobles. I know not what besides,
But this first won me. Be not angered, sir;
But, as I looked, I never ranked you higher
Than simple gentleman. I asked your name;
Then, when your Highness stooped to pick my flower,
My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor,
For it had fain discrowned you.
DON JOHN.
May God’s angels
Reward such treason. Say me those words again.
