Tur. Sir, I have allways beene your humblest servante.
Char. O you dyssemble fynelye!
Tur. I protest, sir.
Char. Nay, then I may beleive you flatter me,
But say thou dost and seeme to love me dearelye,
For I confess, as freelye as I love,
One littell sparke of thee outbuys my kyngdome;
And when my kyngdomes gone pray what am I?
A pore decrepyd mysserable thynge
That needs no greater plauge then adge and wrinckles.
Tur. Indeed your passyon is toe vyolent. I doe adore you next to dietie [sic] And will lay downe my life for you to treade on.
Char. Oh[92] nowe religion teache me to beleive
Another god, or I must forfayte heaven
And worshypp what I see, thys happy creature.
Nowe courtyers flatterye cannot keepe my sence
From knowinge what I feele, for I am weake:
Tys all my comfort nowe to thynke on thee
Who bryngst my captive soule to libertie.
Chuse then a fytt rewarde, examyne all,
All my domynions and authoryties;
Thynke what may please thee, make a full request
Or I shall growe a burthen to thy favors.
Tur. What shall I aske, that in your favours have All that I can desyer?
Char. Nay, aske me somethynge: Come, tell't in myne eare?
Bus. What thynke you, lorde? Has any favrytt all he can desyer.
Rich. Yes, and a be contented.