Of My Sick Humours

"Ha," says I, viewing her tear-wet cheeks as she came, "must ye weep, madam, must ye weep?"

"May I not weep, Martin?" says she, head pitifully a-droop. "Come, let us go back, you look very pale, 'twas wrong of you to come so far! Here is our breakfast, 'tis the best I can find." And she showed me a few poor shellfish.

"Give me the turtle-shell!" says I.

"Indeed I can bear it very easily, Martin. And you so white and haggard--your wound is troubling you. Come, let me bathe it--"

"Give me the turtle-shell!"

"No, Martin, be wise and let us--"

"Will you gainsay me--d'ye defy me?"

"O Martin, no, but you are so weak--"

"Weak! Am I so?" And stooping, I caught her up in my arms, upsetting the turtle-shell and spilling the result of her labours. So with her crushed to me I turned and set off along the beach, and she, lying thus helpless, must needs fall to weeping again and I, in my selfish and blind folly, to plaguing the sweet soul therewith, as: "England is far away, my Lady Joan! Here be no courtly swains, no perfumed, mincing lovers, to sigh and bow and languish for you. Here is Solitude, lady. Desolation hath you fast and is not like to let you go--here mayhap shall you live--and die! An ill place this and, like nature, strong and cruel. An ill place and an ill rogue for company. You named me rogue once and rogue forsooth you find me. England is far away--but God--is farther--"