_Char_. O my deare sweete! where has my best frend beene? My joy of life, my ages comforter! Indeede I've had a tedyous mysse of thee. _Tur_. What meanes your majestie? _Char_. I meane to live for ever on thy necke And bathe thy bossome with my joyfull teares. O thou arte sweete and lovelye as the sprynge, Freshe as the mornynge on the blushinge rosse When the bright sonne dothe kysse it. _Orl_. Ha, whats thys? _Tur_. I am your pore weake servant, an oulde man, That have but onlye prayrs to pleasure you. _Char_. Thou art all butye, spyces and perfume, A verye myne of imortallytie. Theise hayres are oth complexion of the skye, Not like the earthe blacke browne and sullyed. Thou hast no wrinckles: theise are carracters In which are wrytt loves happiest hystorye. Indeede I needs must kysse theym, faythe I will. [_Kisses Turpin_. _Orl_.--Wonder when wilt thou leave me? thys is straunge. _Rei_.--Nay, farre above my readinge. _Orl_.--Upon my life! The ould men will not ravyshe one another? _Tur_. Deare Sir, forbeare; see howe theise prynces scorne Thys toe much wanton passyon. _Char_. They are joys Toe good for theym to wyttness. Come, my sweete; We will in private measure our delights And fyll our wishes bryme full. _F[r]aunce_ is thyne, And he is but disloyall dare repyne. [_Ex. Char., Turp_. _Orl_. This visyon I must followe; when Charles growes thus The whole worlde shaks: thys comett's omynous. [_Ex. all but Didier_. _Did_. I am a polyticke coxcombe: honestye And contyence are sweete mystresses; though to speake truthe I neare usd eyther mearlye for it selfe. Hope, the last comforte of eche liveinge man, Has undoone me. What course shall I take now? I am worsse then a game; both syds have lost me. My contyence and my fortunes keepe me fytt For anye ill. Successe may make all fayre; He that for naught can hope should naught dispayre. [_Exit_. _Actus Tertius_. (SCENE I.) _Enter Eldegrad and Gabriella_. [_Eld_.] ... ... ... it is not possyble ... ... ... ... ... The smoothe face of the wanton lovelye _Richard_ Should promise more true fortytude in love Then tourne a recreant to perswatyons. _Gab_. Why, mother, you have seene the course of thyngs, The smale assurance and the certayne deathe, The meare deceytfull scope and shadowed ruyns That are most conynglie knytt up in pleasures; And are you styll to learne or will you trust A lovelye face with all your good beleife? My dutye checks myne anger, or I should-- _Eld_. What should you? _Gab_. Give your tast a bytternes. _Eld_. I pray thee, doe; bytter thyngs expell poyson; See if my follyes may be purdgd a littill.