Gan. So, And what wants thys of impudence?
Gab. As much As you of charytie if your tonge bee A faithfull servant to your mynde.
Gan. Tys well: You would be whored (mayd), would you not?
Ric. Pray, Forbeare.
Gab. Your reprehensyon is unmannerlye,
While Ile enduer no longer. Fayre Sir, knowe
I will not have my true love circomscrybd
Within the lymits of your pollycie,
Come, y'are wicked.
Gan. Repentance would doe well.
Gab. Tys a fytt matche for threescore and ten yeares
And at that sober age I meane to wedd it.
Yet knowe that my desyers are not so wild
But they stay here. Nor will I ever stray
Beyond this most loved object.
Ric. Say not so:
It never can retourne your recompence.
Vertue, my soules dower, which is now contrackt
And richlie to be marryed unto heaven
Shall ever keepe me from affectyon:
Beleve it, madam, I will never love.
Gab. Then have false hopes raysd me to th'topp of all Onlye to forme my ruyne in my fall.
Gan. Nay, no more fallinge. Come, my noble frende; And, ladye, cherishe not these whorishe longings.