Char. Why, theres a hande that aunswers to hys foote!
Fue. I & a true one toe, or bourne it ells.
Char. A legge and necke of one cyrcompherence,
A waste that is no hygher then hys thye,
And all parts ells of stronge proportyon.
I am inchaunted with thys vyssyon.
Did.—In hells name what behould's hys majestie To doate uppon thys rascall!
Fue. It was a scurvye thynge in nature that she did not tourne mans eies inwarde. Why, had I seene as much as the emperoure I myghte have been a monarke by thys time. I will growe proude.
Char. O thou the onlye sweetnes of my soule,
Give me but leave to touche thee, let my hand
(Chast loves most bashful messenger) presume
[To stro]ake theise flowers that in thy lovelie [chee]kes
Flouryshe like somer garlands. In soothe my soule
Loves thee beyond relatyon; for thee I doate
And dye in thyne affectyon. Come, Ile make
Thee greater then all Fraunce, above the peres,
The proudest he that breathes shall thynke hym blest
To do thee servyce, and esteeme it heaven
To be thyne ape in imytatyon.
Fue. Nowe must I be coy by all meanes.—Trulye for myne owne parte I must love by dyscretyon, and discretyon tells me I ought not to love an oulde man, for ould men must needs be ingratfull.
Char. Why, deare sweete?
Fue. Because they can never live to rewarde benefytts.
Tur.—Bytter knave.