And staggerd me with wonder.

_Rich_. Good sweete lorde,
Forbeare thy courtshypp, our acquayntance is
Too oulde, & as I hope frendshypp too fyrme
To be nowe semented.

_Gan_. True, my best freinde;
And thoughe I wante arythmatycke to counte
My treasure in thee, pray thee give me leave
To joy in my posession of suche blysse
To which all honours in our _Fraunce_ compaird
Were as a rushe mongst manye myllions shared.

_Rich_. Sir, thoughe I knowe there is nothynge in me
Able to give a flattery hope to thryve
In the most abject slave to it that courts,
And therefore cannot doute it in your selfe,
Yet I beseeche you talke of somethynge elles
Or I shall growe unmannerlye & leave you:
Myne owne prayse is my torture.

_Gan_. Heaven forbydd
Yf I shoulde torture hym I love so muche,
Beyond expression! And synce this offends thee
Ile speake of that shall please my noblest _Rycharde_.

_Rich_. Your pleasure & your honorable ends
Are bounds beyond which I have no delighte.