_Gan_. Fye, thys doth stayne your noble modestye. _Gab_. To tell before you myne affectyon In publique I confes it would make me A subject for taxation. _Gan_. Anywhere. Come, a must not love you. _Gab_. Heavens forbydd! And I must tell you, brother, that I darre (And with no other then a syster's spleene) Justifye myne affectyon. _Gan_. So, And what wants thys of impudence? _Gab_. As much As you of charytie if your tonge bee A faithfull servant to your mynde. _Gan_. Tys well: You would be whored (mayd), would you not? _Ric_. Pray, Forbeare. _Gab_. Your reprehensyon is unmannerlye, While Ile enduer no longer. Fayre Sir, knowe I will not have my true love circomscrybd Within the lymits of your pollycie, Come, y'are wicked. _Gan_. Repentance would doe well. _Gab_. Tys a fytt matche for threescore and ten yeares And at that sober age I meane to wedd it. Yet knowe that my desyers are not so wild But they stay here. Nor will I ever stray Beyond this most loved object. _Ric_. Say not so: It never can retourne your recompence. Vertue, my soules dower, which is now contrackt And richlie to be marryed unto heaven Shall ever keepe me from affectyon: Beleve it, madam, I will never love. _Gab_. Then have false hopes raysd me to th'topp of all Onlye to forme my ruyne in my fall. _Gan_. Nay, no more fallinge. Come, my noble frende; And, ladye, cherishe not these whorishe longings. [_Exe. Gan. Rich_. _Gab_. Not cherrishe them? yes, blowe them into flames Create as the full desyers that warme my bloode. What, am I younge, fruytfull, and somewhat fayre, And shall my pleasures beare the servyle yoake Of hys strycte rules and so chayne up my blood In manackles of ice? Fyrst Ile dare All pangs make men thynke of mortallytie, But I will love hym; yes, I will love hym styll And so be servd both in my lust and will. _Enter Charlimayne with the queene in his armes, Turpin, La Busse_. _Turp_ ... ... Sir, let me perswade ... ... Thys dottage ore the deade is monstrous, Nor suits youre greatnes nor your gravitie. _Char_. No more; He that perswades me from thys loved embrace Is my most mortall enemye, and here I sweare Ile hate hym to destructyon. O, _Gabriella_, come; thy syster sleepes A longe, longe slumber, but she is not deade; Goodnes can never perishe, and if so Yet deathe shall not devyde us. Why, I have Not full so many mynuts to survyve As one pore breathe may reccon, and shall I For that short space forgett her? No we'll stay And close our loves both in one monument. _Turp_. Was never seene suche an affectyon!