Eld.  Most willinglie; Yet suer I knowe hys harte [is] settled there Which to the courte is a contrarye spheare.

[Ex.  Eldegr. and Gab.

Tur.  Howe prettylie theise weomen can dissemble! ... ... ... ... ... 
O tys a foule and damned sorcerye
And maks the best of wisdome and of men,
Of fame and fortytude, more loosse then ayre,
Foolishe as idyotts, basse as cowardysse. 
Why I am even rackt with complyment
And torturde past all suffrance; age nor sexe
Houlde difference in thys incantatyon. 
But I will trye it further, harke a comes;
Nowe must I passe the pike of lunacye.

    Enter Charlimayne, La Busse and Richard.

Char.  Come, come, my dearest; wherefore doe you starve
My quycke desyers with your so cruell absence? 
I pray thee tender my declyninge age,
Stande allways neare that I may never faynte;
For thou inspyrst in me more strengthe and life
Then mightie nature when she made me younge.

Tur.  Sir, I have allways beene your humblest servante.

Char.  O you dyssemble fynelye!

Tur.  I protest, sir.

Char.  Nay, then I may beleive you flatter me,
But say thou dost and seeme to love me dearelye,
For I confess, as freelye as I love,
One littell sparke of thee outbuys my kyngdome;
And when my kyngdomes gone pray what am I? 
A pore decrepyd mysserable thynge
That needs no greater plauge then adge and wrinckles.

Tur.  Indeed your passyon is toe vyolent. 
I doe adore you next to dietie [sic]
And will lay downe my life for you to treade on.

Char.  Oh[92] nowe religion teache me to beleive
Another god, or I must forfayte heaven
And worshypp what I see, thys happy creature. 
Nowe courtyers flatterye cannot keepe my sence
From knowinge what I feele, for I am weake: 
Tys all my comfort nowe to thynke on thee
Who bryngst my captive soule to libertie. 
Chuse then a fytt rewarde, examyne all,
All my domynions and authoryties;
Thynke what may please thee, make a full request
Or I shall growe a burthen to thy favors.

Tur.  What shall I aske, that in your favours have All that I can desyer?

Char.  Nay, aske me somethynge:  Come, tell’t in myne eare?

Bus.  What thynke you, lorde?  Has any favrytt all he can desyer.

Rich.  Yes, and a be contented.

Bus.—­Right, sir, thats the questyon, but can a favoryte be so easylie contented?

Rich.—­Most easylie, being such a worthy reverend prellatt.

Bus.—­Foote, man, let him be ten thousand preists[93] and a will styll wante somethynge.  Give hym but tyme and a wadger with thee, Richard, he asks somewhat.  See, see, the emperour instructs hym; a good oulde loveinge soule and he is a good ould love he has chossen.  I doe not nowe blame hys doatinge on my sister.