Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor

France
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised,
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 enflamed respect.

Gods, gods! ‘Tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to enflamed respect.—
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France.
Not all the dukes of wat'rish Burgundy
Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.—
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind.
Thou losest here a better where to find.
King Lear 
Thou hast her, France. Let her be thine, for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again. To Cordelia. Therefore begone
Without our grace, our love, our benison.