Fue.  Nowe must I be coy by all meanes.—­Trulye for myne owne parte I must love by dyscretyon, and discretyon tells me I ought not to love an oulde man, for ould men must needs be ingratfull.

Char.  Why, deare sweete?

Fue.  Because they can never live to rewarde benefytts.

Tur.—­Bytter knave.

Char.  O doe not feare; my bountye shall exceede
The power of thyne askynge; thou shalt treade
Uppon the heads of prynces.  Bowe, you lords,
And fall before thys saynte I reverence.

Tur.  Rich.  Did.  Honors to hym the emperor doth honor!

Fue.  Aryse, my good subjects; onlye for that roauge there the first acte of my chronickle shalbe hys hanginge.

Did.  O be not angrye with your humble servante:  I ever did adore you,

Fue.  Yes like the meales that thou hast devourd halfe chewd for greedynes.  But revendge comes nowe gallopinge.

Char.  Who hathe displeasd my dearest? name hys name, The verye breathe shall blast hym; onlye, sweete, Love me & have thy wishes.

Fue.  Well, I am contented to love you; and why?  For nothing but because you are an oulde man.

Char.  Why, tys the onlye tye of faythfulines: 
Age is the onlye object of the harte,
And by’s experyence onlye hathe aspyrd
Toth heyght of all perfectyon.

Fue.  True, for I’ll stande too’t an oulde man is able to see more, doe more, & comand more then any young man in Chrystendome.

Char.  Prove it, my sweete; thou arte myne advocate.

Fue.  Why, a sees more, through spectackles which make everye thynge apeare bygger than it is; does more, for a never lights from hys horse but hees readye to pull the sadle after hym; and for comandment he may call twentye tymes to hys servant ere he have hys will once performed.

Rich.—­Sfoote, the knave dothe abuse hys hyghnes groslye.

Tur.—­Tut, not at all when’t cannot be dyserned.

Char.  Why, I doe nowe doate on thyne excellence.  Thys witts unparaleld.

Did.—­True, except a man searche the Idyotts hospytall.

Char.  Thou never shalt goe from me.

Fue.  O yes, by all meanes.  Shall my master say I ranne away like a rascall?  No, you shall give me leave to take my leave.  That ceremonye performd, I’m yours tyll doomes day.

Char.  I cannot live without thee.

Fue.  Ile not stay a day at furthest.

Char.  I darre denye thee nothynge.  Kysse & goe:  Thynke how I languyshe for thee.

Fue.  And I will condole in recyprocall kyndnes.

Char.  Bishopp, attend my dearest.

Tur.  Greate Sir, I was toe impudent even nowe
To trooble you with my token; good Sir, please
To give it me agayne:  a meaner man
Shall serve my humble messadge.