Gan.  I cannot blame hym; tis a furye man
Can neither tame nor conquer.  But, dear frende,
Is there no meanes to come to the dead queene
Out of the emperours presence?

Ric.  Sir, theres none;
He hath her evermore within hys armes,
And when a sleepes your syster Gabriella
Or the oulde Bishopp Turpin doe attend her.

Gan.  I, there you name a newe afflyctyon,
That syster is an ulcer in my bloode: 
Howe doe you with her doatinge passyons?

Ric.  Sleyght them beyond your wishes.

Gan.  Thou dost amaze me with thy noble vertue,
And thence I honor thee.  As for that mayd
Still let her frantique love receyve repulse
And crowne thy contynence; for though I was
Content the queene should stray, yet thys[90]
I would not have to fall for chrystendome.

Ric.  You neede not feare me:  if not contynence, Yet myne owne will is armour strong enoughe.

Gan.  I know’t; and here she comes.

    Enter Gabriella.

Gab.  Brother, God save you!—­0 my noble Richarde, You make me oulde ithe mornynge of my yeares.  Shall styll your winter nypp me?

Gan.  What doe you meane?

Gab.  T’express a love thats good and vertuous.

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.