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.

Gab.  Spleene shall not taynte my goodnes
So muche as to account your errors follyes;
But, I proteste, were you another woman,
I should be bouldlye seryous and tell you
That all the wytts of chrystendome are spente
In stryppinge the corrupted harte of smoothnes: 
And yet you thynke a smoothe perswadinge boy
Beares all hys daunger in hys cheeke and eie! 
Shall weomen trust a sweete and courtlye face
When they themselves deceyve most by the face? 
Why serves our owne dissemblinge arte if we
Cannot suspect when others doe dissemble?