[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!

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.