Fue.  And you had talkd thus before y’ad never tyerd me.

Tur.  Stay, goe not yet, here comes the emperoure.

Fue.  Mas, Ile have a syghte on hym.

    Enter Charlimayne, Richard, Didier.

Char.  Doe not perswade me; cossen, you shall weare The honors I have given; what was Ganelons Onlye belongs to Rychard, he shall weare theym.

Rich.  But without ease or comforte.—­Good my lorde,
You have a power in hys hyghnes love
Beyond power to interprett:  pray you begge
Hys grace will ease thys burthen.

Char.  Nor he nor any creature on the earthe Hath power in me beyond the rule of wisdome.

Tur.  Not nowe, I knowe; that charme is altered.  —­Sweete lorde, I darre not lymytt kings affectyons.  You have no honors but you merrytt theym.

Char.  Ha! 
Wonder, howe dost thou houlde me! noble sence,
Doe not forsake my reason.  Good sweete lords,
What excellent thynge is that, that, that, that thynge
That is beyond discryption? knowe you hym?

Fue.—­Hath spyed me and comends me:  I may mounte.

Tur.  Tys a dyspysed groome, the drudge of Ganelon.

Char.  Tys the best forme of man that ere I sawe.  Let me admyre hym.

Tur.—­The ringe dothe hould hys vertue everye where, In weomen, men & monsters.

Rich.—­Whence growes thys?  Madnes to it is wisdome.

Char.  Why, tys a bodye made by symetree
And knytt together with more arte & care
Then mathematycks cyrckles. Durers rules
Are perfytted in hym.  Why, theirs a face
Figurd with all proportyons! browe & eie,
Rounde cheeke & lypp, a nose emperyall,
And everye feature ells of excellence!

Fue.  Alas I am but a grosse servyngman, yet vertue will sparkell.

Char.  Why, theres a hande that aunswers to hys foote!

Fue.  I & a true one toe, or bourne it ells.

Char.  A legge and necke of one cyrcompherence,
A waste that is no hygher then hys thye,
And all parts ells of stronge proportyon. 
I am inchaunted with thys vyssyon.

Did.—­In hells name what behould’s hys majestie To doate uppon thys rascall!

Fue.  It was a scurvye thynge in nature that she did not tourne mans eies inwarde.  Why, had I seene as much as the emperoure I myghte have been a monarke by thys time.  I will growe proude.

Char.  O thou the onlye sweetnes of my soule,
Give me but leave to touche thee, let my hand
(Chast loves most bashful messenger) presume
[To stro]ake theise flowers that in thy lovelie [chee]kes
Flouryshe like somer garlands.  In soothe my soule
Loves thee beyond relatyon; for thee I doate
And dye in thyne affectyon.  Come, Ile make
Thee greater then all Fraunce, above the peres,
The proudest he that breathes shall thynke hym blest
To do thee servyce, and esteeme it heaven
To be thyne ape in imytatyon.