Indeede I've had a tedyous mysse of thee.

_Tur_. What meanes your majestie?

_Char_. I meane to live for ever on thy necke
And bathe thy bossome with my joyfull teares.
O thou arte sweete and lovelye as the sprynge,
Freshe as the mornynge on the blushinge rosse
When the bright sonne dothe kysse it.

_Orl_. Ha, whats thys?

_Tur_. I am your pore weake servant, an oulde man,
That have but onlye prayrs to pleasure you.

_Char_. Thou art all butye, spyces and perfume,
A verye myne of imortallytie.
Theise hayres are oth complexion of the skye,
Not like the earthe blacke browne and sullyed.
Thou hast no wrinckles: theise are carracters
In which are wrytt loves happiest hystorye.
Indeede I needs must kysse theym, faythe I will.
[_Kisses Turpin_.

_Orl_.--Wonder when wilt thou leave me? thys is straunge.

_Rei_.--Nay, farre above my readinge.

_Orl_.--Upon my life!
The ould men will not ravyshe one another?