_Ric_. Health attend you!

_Gan_. O my dearest sweete,
Thy presence makes thee master of thy wish;
For in it rests my health and happynes.
Howe does my best friend? faythe, you look most sadd,
And we have bothe full cause. My syster's deathe
Hath, like the moone in opposytion,
Put out the eie of heaven. But doth the emperour
Styll keep her in hys armes.

_Ric_. Yes, styll and styll;
Nay with such vyolence love seemes to growe
And flourishe most in deathe. _Mesantius_ wrathe,
That tyed dead to the livinge, seemes in hym
The joy of all man's wishes. Soothe he is
Anything now but famous _Charlymayne_.

_Gan_. I cannot blame hym; tis a furye man
Can neither tame nor conquer. But, dear frende,
Is there no meanes to come to the dead queene
Out of the emperours presence?

_Ric_. Sir, theres none;
He hath her evermore within hys armes,
And when a sleepes your syster _Gabriella_
Or the oulde Bishopp _Turpin_ doe attend her.

_Gan_. I, there you name a newe afflyctyon,
That syster is an ulcer in my bloode: