_Char_. Come, _Gabriella_, let us sett her downe; And seate her easylie, doe not hurt my queene; The downie breathe that sweepes alongst the meads, Kissinge the gentyll flowers that sweeten hym, Are stormes and tempests to her tenderness: [_They place the dead bodye in a chayre_. No ayre shall blow uppon her. Happye soule! Indeede I dearelye love thee, for I see The rose and lyllie sprynginge in thy cheeks Fresher than ever. Deathes imortal sythe Dare not offend thy branches: O, thou arte A thynge beyond mortall corruptyon. _Buss_.--What will a make of her? _Turp_.--Even what his fancye pleases. _Char_. If she be dead howe sweete a thynge is deathe, Howe riche, howe gloryous and unmatchable! And howe much follye is in fearfull man [_Sitts by her_. To flye from that which is so amyable! Deare, give me leave to touche thee and imprinte My soule uppon theise rubyes. All the fame And garlands I have woone throughe Chrystendome, The conquests I have made of _Fraunce_, of _Spayne_, Of _Ittalie, Hungarie, Germanie_, Even to the uttmost east poynt, placd with thee Are toys of worthlesse valewe. Here's my crowne, And but for thys I were not _Charlymayne_. _Turp_. Alas, tys she maks hym not _Charlymayne_! _Char_. Comaund some musique. Everye man departe, [_Exe. Bus. and attend[ants]. Soft musique_. But _Turpin_ and my sister. Heavye sleepe Presses me to her bossome; gentyll sweete, Let me not hurte thy goodnes, for my rest Shall but like softe ayre gentlye cover thee. [_Sleepes on her bosome_. _Turp_. What, madam? is he salve a sleepe? _Gab_. Most soundlye, Sir: sadnes from hys soule Hath charmd hys sence with slumber. _Turp_. Then, if it please your goodnes to withdrawe And fytt hys hyhgnes chamber, I will watche And call you at hys wakynge. _Gab_. Willinglye. [_Ex. Gabriella_. _Turp_. I have not seene so stronge a fytt as thys, It is beyond all fevers; for thys feynde, Thys most mallygnant spyrritt called love, Raynes in him above wonder, nay above Th'accounte of learnynge or experyence. I've reade in younger studyes there are charmes, Spells and devysses to comand men's harts; That charracters and imadges and scrolles Can even bynd the soule to servytude. It may be that's wrought on the emperoure. I know the hate of _Ganelon_ to be A myne of all deceytfull polycie, And thys affectyon thus unnaturall, Can but have such a father. Suer Ile trye, If I can fynde the carryage. Pardon me, deathe, That I thys once ryffell thy treasurye. Theres nothynge heare conceald but deathe and colde And emptye sylence, no companyon. What, shall I then leave of? My harte says noe; Ile yet breake ope another cabanett. Nay, I must parte your lipps; the mouthe, they say, Harbors most oft weomen's corruptyons: You cannot byte me, madam. Ha, whats thys? A rynge! A very curyous rynge, a dayntye ringe Hydd underneathe her tonge. Blesse me, fate! Somethynge depends uppon it: what it is I will aprove and be the treasurer.