Tur. I am your pore weake servant, an oulde man, That have but onlye prayrs to pleasure you.
Char. Thou art all butye, spyces and perfume,
A verye myne of imortallytie.
Theise hayres are oth complexion of the skye,
Not like the earthe blacke browne and sullyed.
Thou hast no wrinckles: theise are carracters
In which are wrytt loves happiest hystorye.
Indeede I needs must kysse theym, faythe I will.
[Kisses Turpin.
Orl.—Wonder when wilt thou leave me? thys is straunge.
Rei.—Nay, farre above my readinge.
Orl.—Upon my life! The ould men will not ravyshe one another?
Tur. Deare Sir, forbeare; see howe theise prynces scorne Thys toe much wanton passyon.
Char. They are joys
Toe good for theym to wyttness. Come, my sweete;
We will in private measure our delights
And fyll our wishes bryme full. F[r]aunce is thyne,
And he is but disloyall dare repyne.
[Ex. Char., Turp.
Orl. This visyon I must followe; when Charles growes thus The whole worlde shaks: thys comett's omynous.
[Ex. all but Didier.