Ric. You neede not feare me: if not contynence, Yet myne owne will is armour strong enoughe.
Gan. I know't; and here she comes.
Enter Gabriella.
Gab. Brother, God save you!—0 my noble Richarde, You make me oulde ithe mornynge of my yeares. Shall styll your winter nypp me?
Gan. What doe you meane?
Gab. T'express a love thats good and vertuous.
Gan. Fye, thys doth stayne your noble modestye.
Gab. To tell before you myne affectyon In publique I confes it would make me A subject for taxation.
Gan. Anywhere. Come, a must not love you.
Gab. Heavens forbydd!
And I must tell you, brother, that I darre
(And with no other then a syster's spleene)
Justifye myne affectyon.