No! tho' I hate such bitter Beer,Fair Rosamond I'll pledge thee here. [Drinks.The King this doleful News shall readIn Lines of my Inditing:Great Sir,[Writes.Your Rosamond is deadAs I am at this present writing.The Bow'r turns round, my Brain's abus'd,The Labyrinth grows more confus'd,The Thickets Dance—I stretch, I yawn,Death has tripp'd up my Heels—I'm gone.[Staggers and falls.Re-enter Queen, sola.The Conflict of my Mind is o'er,And Rosamond shall Charm no more.Hence ye secret Damps of Care,Fierce Disdain, and cold Despair,Hence ye Fears and Doubts remove;Hence Grief and Hate!Ye Pains that waitOn Jealousie, the Rage of Love.My Henry shall be mine Alone,The Heroe shall be All my own;Nobler Joys possess my HeartThan Crowns and Scepters can impart.0