| Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens | |
| I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, | |
| In such a parley should I answer thee. | |
| [The lady speaks again in Welsh] | |
| I understand thy kisses and thou mine, | |
| And that's a feeling disputation: | |
| But I will never be a truant, love, | |
| Till I have learned thy language; for thy tongue | |
| Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, | |
| Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, | |
| With ravishing division, to her lute. | |
| GLENDOWER Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. | |
| [The lady speaks again in Welsh] | |
| MORTIMER O, I am ignorance itself in this! | |