_Rich_. I dare not taxe the actyon of a kynge
By giveinge it an ill name in my thoughts.

_Gan_. Y'are modest, sir, nor I; but yet if I
Felte not a straunger love within my selfe
In this my strength of memorye and yeares,
Abyllities of bodye and of brayne,
More doatinge on a man than he on her,
A would not scape my censure.

_Rich_. I beleive
(To which beleife a long experyence
Of youre knowne worthe most steddylie directs)
That if suche an affectyon manadge you,
Tys not the man or sexe that causes it
But the styll groweinge vertues that inhabytt
The object of your love.

_Gan_. Tys orrackle, most happye pryncelye _Richard_,
Thou youngest and thou fayrest braunch of _Aimon_;
And thy still growing vertues have made thee
The object of that love. When first I sawe thee
(Though but with a meare cursorye aspecte)
My soule did prompt me that so fayre a forme
Could not but be the myne of manye vertues.
Then mysser-like I sought to ope the myne
And fynde the treasure, whereuppon I wanne
Your inmost frendshipp, which with joy attaynd
In seekinge for a sparke I found a flame,
Whose rychnes made me admyratyons slave