_Gab_. Tys a fytt matche for threescore and ten yeares
And at that sober age I meane to wedd it.
Yet knowe that my desyers are not so wild
But they stay here. Nor will I ever stray
Beyond this most loved object.

_Ric_. Say not so:
It never can retourne your recompence.
Vertue, my soules dower, which is now contrackt
And richlie to be marryed unto heaven
Shall ever keepe me from affectyon:
Beleve it, madam, I will never love.

_Gab_. Then have false hopes raysd me to th'topp of all
Onlye to forme my ruyne in my fall.

_Gan_. Nay, no more fallinge. Come, my noble frende;
And, ladye, cherishe not these whorishe longings.

[_Exe. Gan. Rich_.

_Gab_. Not cherrishe them? yes, blowe them into flames
Create as the full desyers that warme my bloode.
What, am I younge, fruytfull, and somewhat fayre,
And shall my pleasures beare the servyle yoake
Of hys strycte rules and so chayne up my blood
In manackles of ice? Fyrst Ile dare
All pangs make men thynke of mortallytie,
But I will love hym; yes, I will love hym styll
And so be servd both in my lust and will.