Has a woman in such a mood ever been courted? Has a woman in such a mood ever been won? I'll get her, but I won't keep her long. How can it be that I—who killed her husband and his father—should win her over at the moment she hates me the most? When her mouth was full of curses, her eyes full of tears, and the bloody corpse of my victim right in front of her? She has God, her conscience, and the evidence of my deeds against me, and I have nothing to back me up but the devil and my own false looks! And yet I won her over, with all odds against me! Ha! Has she already forgotten her brave husband Prince Edward, whom I stabbed in an angry mood three months ago at the Battle of Tewkesbury? The world will never again be able to afford a man like him: such a sweet and lovely gentleman, blessed with all of nature's gifts. He was young, brave, wise, and no doubt meant to be king one day. And now she's going to cheapen herself by turning her eyes on me, who cut short her sweet prince's life and made her a widow in mourning? On me, though I'm less than half of the man that Edward was? On me, who limps along, deformed like this? I'd bet my dukedom on a beggar's penny that I've been wrong about myself all this time! Upon my life, she finds me to be a proper, handsome man—though I can't see it. I should buy a mirror and employ twenty or so tailors to study the current fashions and dress me up. Since I like myself now, it will be worth the cost. But first I'll dump this fellow into his grave and then return, weeping, to my love. Shine out, fair sun, so I can watch my shadow as I pass—until I've bought a mirror to admire my reflection.