_Tur_. Deare Sir, forbeare; see howe theise prynces scorne
Thys toe much wanton passyon.

_Char_. They are joys
Toe good for theym to wyttness. Come, my sweete;
We will in private measure our delights
And fyll our wishes bryme full. _F[r]aunce_ is thyne,
And he is but disloyall dare repyne.

[_Ex. Char., Turp_.

_Orl_. This visyon I must followe; when Charles growes thus
The whole worlde shaks: thys comett's omynous.

[_Ex. all but Didier_.

_Did_. I am a polyticke coxcombe: honestye
And contyence are sweete mystresses; though to speake truthe
I neare usd eyther mearlye for it selfe.
Hope, the last comforte of eche liveinge man,
Has undoone me. What course shall I take now?
I am worsse then a game; both syds have lost me.
My contyence and my fortunes keepe me fytt
For anye ill. Successe may make all fayre;
He that for naught can hope should naught dispayre.

[_Exit_.