If I can fynde the carryage. Pardon me, deathe,
That I thys once ryffell thy treasurye.
Theres nothynge heare conceald but deathe and colde
And emptye sylence, no companyon.
What, shall I then leave of? My harte says noe;
Ile yet breake ope another cabanett.
Nay, I must parte your lipps; the mouthe, they say,
Harbors most oft weomen's corruptyons:
You cannot byte me, madam. Ha, whats thys?
A rynge!
A very curyous rynge, a dayntye ringe
Hydd underneathe her tonge. Blesse me, fate!
Somethynge depends uppon it: what it is
I will aprove and be the treasurer.

_Enter Gabriella_.

_Gab_. Howe nowe, my Lorde? awaks the emperour?

[_Char. stirrs_.

_Turp_. I sawe him move even now: agayne he styrrs.
Good sweete, excuse me: when a dothe awake
I will retourne imedyatlye.
[_Exit Turp_.

_Gab_. I will.

_Char_. Hey ho!
Who waytts without? dothe nobodye attend?