_Re-enter_ ALICE.
Give _me_ the lute.
He hates me!
(_She sings_.)
Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing:
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing--
Low, lute, low!
Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken;
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;
Low, my lute! oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken--
Low, dear lute, low!
Take it away! not low enough for me!
ALICE. Your Grace hath a low voice.
MARY. How dare you say it?
Even for that he hates me. A low voice
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear!
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea!
A low voice from the dust and from the grave
(_Sitting on the ground_).
There, am I low enough now?
ALICE. Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace,
With both her knees drawn upward to her chin.
There was an old-world tomb beside my father's,
And this was open'd, and the dead were found
Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.
_Enter_ LADY MAGDALEN DACRES.
LADY MAGDALEN. Madam, the Count de Feria waits without,
In hopes to see your Highness.
LADY CLARENCE (_pointing to_ MARY).
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