... ... ... ... ...
O tys a foule and damned sorcerye
And maks the best of wisdome and of men,
Of fame and fortytude, more loosse then ayre,
Foolishe as idyotts, basse as cowardysse.
Why I am even rackt with complyment
And torturde past all suffrance; age nor sexe
Houlde difference in thys incantatyon.
But I will trye it further, harke a comes;
Nowe must I passe the pike of lunacye.

_Enter Charlimayne, La Busse and Richard_.

_Char_. Come, come, my dearest; wherefore doe you starve
My quycke desyers with your so cruell absence?
I pray thee tender my declyninge age,
Stande allways neare that I may never faynte;
For thou inspyrst in me more strengthe and life
Then mightie nature when she made me younge.

_Tur_. Sir, I have allways beene your humblest servante.

_Char_. O you dyssemble fynelye!

_Tur_. I protest, sir.

_Char_. Nay, then I may beleive you flatter me,
But say thou dost and seeme to love me dearelye,
For I confess, as freelye as I love,
One littell sparke of thee outbuys my kyngdome;