[Rich] ... ... ... ... ... Though certaynlie desyer's the onlye thynge Of strengthe about hym, and that strength is hys With a conceyt that putts desyers in act. _Gan_. And is not that a dottage at the least? _Rich_. I dare not taxe the actyon of a kynge By giveinge it an ill name in my thoughts. _Gan_. Y'are modest, sir, nor I; but yet if I Felte not a straunger love within my selfe In this my strength of memorye and yeares, Abyllities of bodye and of brayne, More doatinge on a man than he on her, A would not scape my censure. _Rich_. I beleive (To which beleife a long experyence Of youre knowne worthe most steddylie directs) That if suche an affectyon manadge you, Tys not the man or sexe that causes it But the styll groweinge vertues that inhabytt The object of your love. _Gan_. Tys orrackle, most happye pryncelye _Richard_, Thou youngest and thou fayrest braunch of _Aimon_; And thy still growing vertues have made thee The object of that love. When first I sawe thee (Though but with a meare cursorye aspecte) My soule did prompt me that so fayre a forme Could not but be the myne of manye vertues. Then mysser-like I sought to ope the myne And fynde the treasure, whereuppon I wanne Your inmost frendshipp, which with joy attaynd In seekinge for a sparke I found a flame, Whose rychnes made me admyratyons slave And staggerd me with wonder. _Rich_. Good sweete lorde, Forbeare thy courtshypp, our acquayntance is Too oulde, & as I hope frendshypp too fyrme To be nowe semented. _Gan_. True, my best freinde; And thoughe I wante arythmatycke to counte My treasure in thee, pray thee give me leave To joy in my posession of suche blysse To which all honours in our _Fraunce_ compaird Were as a rushe mongst manye myllions shared. _Rich_. Sir, thoughe I knowe there is nothynge in me Able to give a flattery hope to thryve In the most abject slave to it that courts, And therefore cannot doute it in your selfe, Yet I beseeche you talke of somethynge elles Or I shall growe unmannerlye & leave you: Myne owne prayse is my torture. _Gan_. Heaven forbydd Yf I shoulde torture hym I love so muche, Beyond expression! And synce this offends thee Ile speake of that shall please my noblest _Rycharde_. _Rich_. Your pleasure & your honorable ends Are bounds beyond which I have no delighte. _Gan_. If from thys marydge there myght sprynge a sonne, Which is myne ende, my honors would knowe none, But like a ryver that receyves his name Or fyrst oryginall from some mountayns foote, Begyns a syngle streame, but at last growes To have no bounds but what it could oreflow-- But tys impossyble. _Rich_. Improbable; For snowe and fyer can hardlye generate. _Gan_. But whyle the snowe lyes on a mountayns topp, Consumeinge with the heat which comfortts all Excepte it selfe, the fyer may be blowne Into a second flame. _Rich_. I graunte you that-- _Gan_. Posytion and request; or elles I perishe. _Rich_. What meanes my _Ganelon_?