Rich.  Good sweete lorde,
Forbeare thy courtshypp, our acquayntance is
Too oulde, & as I hope frendshypp too fyrme
To be nowe semented.

Gan.  True, my best freinde;
And thoughe I wante arythmatycke to counte
My treasure in thee, pray thee give me leave
To joy in my posession of suche blysse
To which all honours in our Fraunce compaird
Were as a rushe mongst manye myllions shared.

Rich.  Sir, thoughe I knowe there is nothynge in me
Able to give a flattery hope to thryve
In the most abject slave to it that courts,
And therefore cannot doute it in your selfe,
Yet I beseeche you talke of somethynge elles
Or I shall growe unmannerlye & leave you: 
Myne owne prayse is my torture.

Gan.  Heaven forbydd
Yf I shoulde torture hym I love so muche,
Beyond expression!  And synce this offends thee
Ile speake of that shall please my noblest Rycharde.

Rich.  Your pleasure & your honorable ends Are bounds beyond which I have no delighte.

Gan.  If from thys marydge there myght sprynge a sonne,
Which is myne ende, my honors would knowe none,
But like a ryver that receyves his name
Or fyrst oryginall from some mountayns foote,
Begyns a syngle streame, but at last growes
To have no bounds but what it could oreflow—­
But tys impossyble.

Rich.  Improbable; For snowe and fyer can hardlye generate.

Gan.  But whyle the snowe lyes on a mountayns topp,
Consumeinge with the heat which comfortts all
Excepte it selfe, the fyer may be blowne
Into a second flame.

Rich.  I graunte you that—­

Gan.  Posytion and request; or elles I perishe.

Rich.  What meanes my Ganelon?

Gan.  Faythe to be playne
And not to wrong the love, which I have founde
Ever in thee, with any further doute,
My love would have thee call a kynge thy sonne
And gett him of my sister.  Startst thou backe? 
Come, I doe knowe thou lovest her with thy soule
And has syght for her often.  Now enjoy,
And doe not stande amazd:  if thou refuse,
Then my hopes like the flower of flaxe receyve
Their byrthe and grave together; for by heaven
To be made monarke of the unyverse
And lorde of all claspt in the seagods armes,
I would not have her toucht unlesse by thee: 
And if the thoughts of men were scrutable
To man and mongst men might be knowne to me,
The foole that should attempt her but in thoughte
[Could]e better hand-bounde wrastell with the sea. ... ... ... ... ... 
But yet my love doth offer her to thee,
And tys rejected.

Rich.  You mistake me, sweete: 
I am all yours and what you shall thynke fytt
Ile cease to questyon, yet my contyence calls
It a disloyall and a monstrous fact.