<SPEECH 1><ACT 1><SCENE 1><6%>
<FRANCE>	<7%>
	This is most strange,
	That she, who even but now was your best object,
	The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
	The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time
	Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
	So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence
	Must be of such unnatural degree
	That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection
	Fall into taint; which to believe of her,
	Must be a faith that reason without miracle
	Could never plant in me.
</FRANCE>

<SPEECH 2><ACT 1><SCENE 1><7%>
<FRANCE>	<7%>
	Is it but this? a tardiness in nature
	Which often leaves the history unspoke
	That it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy,
	What say you to the lady? Love is not love
	When it is mingled with regards that stand
	Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?
	She is herself a dowry.
</FRANCE>

<SPEECH 3><ACT 1><SCENE 1><7%>
<FRANCE>	<8%>
	Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
	Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
	Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
	Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.
	Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
	My love should kindle to inflam'd respect.
	Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
	Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
	Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
	Shall buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me.
	Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
	Thou losest here, a better where to find.
</FRANCE>

<SPEECH 4><ACT 1><SCENE 1><7%>
<FRANCE>	<8%>
	Bid farewell to your sisters.
</FRANCE>

<SPEECH 5><ACT 1><SCENE 1><8%>
<FRANCE>	<9%>
	Come, my fair Cordelia.
</FRANCE>

