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And bow my head whilst Mollo's son doth say, "Be silent, wife."—Shall I endure all this? O Edward! gentle Ethling! thou who once Didst bear the title of my future lord! Would'st thou have used me thus! I'll not endure it.

Dwi. Yet be more patient!

Elb. Be patient, say'st thou! go to, for I hate thee When thou so calmly talk'st. Tho' seemingly, I oft before his keen commanding eye Submissive am, think'st thou I am subdued? No, by my royal race, I'll not endure it! I will unto the bishop with my wrongs! Rever'd and holy men shall do me right. And here he comes unsent for: this my hope Calls a good omen.

Good holy father, I crave your blessing.

Hex, Thou hast it, royal daughter. Art thou well? Thou seem'st disorder'd.

Elb. Yes, rev'rend father, I am sorely gall'd Beneath a heavy and ignoble yoke; My crowned head is in subjection bow'd, Like meanest household dame; and thinkest thou That it becomes the daughter of a king, The chief descendant of your royal race To bear all this, and say that she is well?