Then my hopes like the flower of flaxe receyve
Their byrthe and grave together; for by heaven
To be made monarke of the unyverse
And lorde of all claspt in the seagods armes,
I would not have her toucht unlesse by thee:
And if the thoughts of men were scrutable
To man and mongst men might be knowne to me,
The foole that should attempt her but in thoughte
[Could]e better hand-bounde wrastell with the sea.
... ... ... ... ...
But yet my love doth offer her to thee,
And tys rejected.

_Rich_. You mistake me, sweete:
I am all yours and what you shall thynke fytt
Ile cease to questyon, yet my contyence calls
It a disloyall and a monstrous fact.

_Gan_. Tutt, a prosperous synne is nowe a vertuous acte;
Let not that starte you.

_Rich_. I am confyrm'd, but yet the Emp[e]resse--

_Gan_. Why, knowe not I howe deare she valewes you,
And but for thys hope would not live an hower.
Come, her consent shall flye to meet your wishes
And locke you in saftie. In the nexte roome
Stay me a littill.--Now my projects goe [_Exit Richard_.
Uprighte and steddye. Let me style my selfe
(And proudlye too) the mynion of the fates.