John, In the south gardens of my father's house, Where we have seen the summer sun go down, Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, There dwell "Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure." And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; And make confession seven times a day Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; And I your saint the penance should appoint-- Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid Aside, like an old fashion.
_John._ O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts; My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, I have no part in any good man's love, In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, I fade and wither in my own esteem, This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
I was not always thus.

[_Weeps_.
_Marg_.

Thou noble nature, Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John! Upon her knees (regard her poor request) Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.
_John_.

What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret?
_Marg_.

That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high Heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence, with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-- John yet has many happy days to live; To live and make atonement.
_John_.