Char.  Cossen Reinaldo, if youle sytt and prayse The fayre eies of my fayre love, I will heare Tyll you be tyerd with talkinge.

Rei.  What is this? 
Is this the voyce of mightie Charlimayne? 
Sir, from your worthye nephewe I am come,
The ever feard Orlando, who in Spayne
Hath with hys owne fame mixt your happynes
By a blest vyctorye.

Char.  We have no leasure
To heare, nor are we able to contayne
Another happynes, nor is theire other. 
Successe in warre is but a pleasynge dreame
From whence a drume may fryght us.  Here doth rest
My happynes which cannot be exprest.

          [Ex.  Cha., The., Gab., and attendants.

Tur.  Pryncely Reinaldo, doe not let amaze
Strugle within you; you but yet survay
The out syde of our wonder.

Rich.  Brother, ’tis more Then can be wrytten in a cronyckle.

Rei.  But must not be without my reprehensyon.  Come, I will followe hym:  when Charles dothe flye From honor, where shall goodnes hope to lye?

[Exe. all but Gan. and Rich.

Gan.  Stay, worthye frende, and let me playnlye knowe How you affect t[hys] humor in the kynge.

Rich.  Faythe, generally as a good subject should,—­
Delighted with the joy hys kynge receyves
(And which I hope and wish may styll contynewe),
But in partycular—­because the cause
Of hys joy cannot chuse but worke to you
Effecte worthye your vertues.  For my old love,
Tys nowe lodg’d in a desperatt memorye.

Gan.  But dost not seeme a most grosse dott[age]?

[Rich] ... ... ... ... ... 
Though certaynlie desyer’s the onlye thynge
Of strengthe about hym, and that strength is hys
With a conceyt that putts desyers in act.

Gan.  And is not that a dottage at the least?

Rich.  I dare not taxe the actyon of a kynge By giveinge it an ill name in my thoughts.

Gan.  Y’are modest, sir, nor I; but yet if I
Felte not a straunger love within my selfe
In this my strength of memorye and yeares,
Abyllities of bodye and of brayne,
More doatinge on a man than he on her,
A would not scape my censure.

Rich.  I beleive
(To which beleife a long experyence
Of youre knowne worthe most steddylie directs)
That if suche an affectyon manadge you,
Tys not the man or sexe that causes it
But the styll groweinge vertues that inhabytt
The object of your love.

Gan.  Tys orrackle, most happye pryncelye Richard,
Thou youngest and thou fayrest braunch of Aimon;
And thy still growing vertues have made thee
The object of that love.  When first I sawe thee
(Though but with a meare cursorye aspecte)
My soule did prompt me that so fayre a forme
Could not but be the myne of manye vertues. 
Then mysser-like I sought to ope the myne
And fynde the treasure, whereuppon I wanne
Your inmost frendshipp, which with joy attaynd
In seekinge for a sparke I found a flame,
Whose rychnes made me admyratyons slave
And staggerd me with wonder.