Good sir, you speak a speaking that I loathe to find contract with. I love thee, surely. But not just thine face. Were that thy face were that of a troll, I would love thee. It is the heart in thee that I would to husband.
(that was pretty damn fucking good, let's keep going)
How can I hear this? How can I take heart unto thine words that are only words? They make me feel but like an ass. I am no lady. I am no queen. I am but a wench who doth fret for her bread and milk. Thou art but a fool, aye, that thou have spoke true. Get thou to a priest. A priest will make thee right.
Aye, but unto thee no priest shall I commit. I wouldst but have then for mine own self be true, and wilt thou not but be lady luck this eve? Verily, thou shalt know what it is to be a lady in mine arms.