Bal monologue — The Spanish Tragedy

No; she is wilder, and more hard withal, Then beast or bird, or tree or stony wall! But wherefore blot I Bel-imperia's name? It is my fault, not she that merits blame. My feature is not to content her sight; My words are rude and work her no delight; The lines I send her are but harsh and ill, Such as do drop from Pan and Marsya's quill; My presents are not of sufficient cost; And, being worthless, all my labours lost. Yet might she love me for my valiancy. Aye; but that's slander'd by captivity. Yet might she love me to content her sire. Aye; but her reason masters her desire. Yet might she love me as her brother's friend. Aye; but her hopes aim at some other end. Yet might she love me to uprear her state. Aye; but perhaps she loves some nobler mate. Yet might she love me as her beauty's thrall. Aye; but I fear she cannot love at all.