pryvate rumynat our selves together.

_Char_. Is there no whypps for knaves are impudent?
Thys sawcynes will make your skynne [to] smarte.

_Fue_. Away, away! Y'are an ould man & should be wyse. I tell you I was
not in love with you tyll you doated on me; to drawe me into a fooles
paradysse[104] & there leave me is not an honest man's parte nor a good
chrystyans.

_Char_. What kynde of madnes call you thys? for shame!
Shall I be torturd with hym?

_Tur_. Tys but a rude grosse weaknes, which anon
Ile shoe at full unto your majestie.

_Fue_. Come, sweete _Charles_, I knowe thou lovest me, & love will
creepe where it cannot goe. Come, letts condole together.

_Char_. Yes, if I like your example. Goe presentlye
And give him fortye lashes: make hym bleede
Soundlye, away with hym!

_Fue_. Howe, howe, how! fortye lashes! so I shall bleede to deathe. Call
you that soundlye? Foote! I am sicke with thought on't.

_Char_. Away with hym!
And if a prate, see that you dooble them:
Away!