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!